The Doomsday Key

"Another storm is rolling in faster than predicted. He wants to make sure it doesn't interrupt his plans."

"Very wise. Because a storm is definitely brewing out there." The man's voice faded. "You have your orders."

The line went dead.

Krista lowered the phone and clutched it between her palms. She shifted closer to the fire but found no warmth. She stood there unmoving, losing track of time. Her breathing grew harder.

Finally, a voice spoke behind her.

"Are you coming to bed, Krista?"

She glanced over her shoulder. Ivar Karlsen stood naked in the doorway to his bedroom. At his age, he remained solid, his belly flat, his legs strong and muscular. And more important, he needed no pill to perform.

"Is everything all right?" he asked.

"Couldn't be better."

She turned fully to face him. Dropping her phone into a pocket, she undid the sash of her robe and let the garment slither off her shoulders to pile atop the fur rug. She stood with her back to the flames, all too aware of the fire, all too aware of the icy chill of the castle room.

She stood where she belonged.

Between ice and fire.

THIRD

SEEDS OF DESTRUCTION

Chapter 18

October 13, 8:43 A.M.

Airborne over the Norwegian Sea

The sun remained low in the sky as the private jet soared over the Arctic Circle. During the late autumn months, there was little daylight where they were headed. The archipelago of Svalbard lay halfway between the northern coast of Norway and the North Pole. With over half of its land-mass buried under glaciers, it was home to little besides reindeer and polar bears.

Even Saint Nick would have a hard time calling this place home.

But for the moment, Painter enjoyed the leather and mahogany cabin of the private jet, a Citation Sovereign wangled by Kat. She also had their flight manifest altered to show that they were executives of a coal consortium. It was a decent cover. The major industry of the archipelago was coal mining.

The jet's cabin sat seven, so there was plenty of room for the four of them to stretch out. They had all managed to get a little sleep, needing it after the long night, but they'd be landing in less than an hour at Longyearbyen, the largest settlement on the Svalbard islands.

Painter leaned back in his leather captain's chair. He sat across a table from Senator Gorman. Monk and Creed shared a neighboring couch. It was time to lay all their respective cards on the table, to firm up the tentative game plan for the coming confrontation.

Painter knew they would have to move fast, to jump as soon as their tires hit the tarmac. They had fled Oslo knowing two things. First, that with Painter's cover blown and the senator being hunted, the place had grown too hot. Second, that their major suspect had already abandoned the city and was headed to the same frozen islands. It was their best chance to corner Karlsen and get some real answers.

The CEO of Viatus was leading a group of summit leaders to view the famous Svalbard Global Seed Vault. It was the Noah's Ark for seeds, meant to protect its precious cargo-over three hundred thousand seed species-against wars, pestilence, nuclear attack, earthquakes, even drastic climate changes. Designed to last for twenty thousand years, this Doomsday Vault was buried five hundred feet under a mountain, in what was considered to be the most remotely populated place on earth.

If they wanted a private conversation with Karlsen, far from prying eyes, this was the place for it. But such a meeting wasn't without significant risk.

"Senator," Painter pressed one last time, "I still think it might be best if you stayed in Longyearbyen. If we need you, we can pull you into the investigation."

Painter continued to maintain the ruse that the three of them were from the office of the Inspector General, working for the Defense Criminal Investigative Service. They even had the badges to prove it.

"I'm going with you," Senator Gorman said, nursing a cup of coffee.

Painter had noted that he'd spiked it with some brandy from the stocked bar. Not that Painter blamed the guy. Gorman had taken a series of hard blows in the past few hours. He had been a close associate, bordering on friends, with Karlsen.

Gorman's voice hardened. "If Ivar truly had a hand in the death of my son..."

"We still don't know how much ties directly back to him," Painter offered thinly.

The senator wasn't buying it.

"He fucking shook my hand." Gorman slammed a fist on the table, rattling the coffee cups and saucers. He glared across the table. Plainly the senator would not be swayed from coming. Painter could only imagine the pain of his loss, followed by such a betrayal, but at the moment Painter didn't need someone flying off half-cocked.

Still, the man had one solid argument and stated it again. "You'll need me to get close to Ivar."

Painter folded his hands in his lap, recognizing the truth. Karlsen had left an hour before them, racing ahead of a storm blowing in from the pole. He would likely already be at the seed vault by the time they landed. And security there was tight, especially with the arriving dignitaries from the summit.

Senator Gorman continued. "To get inside, you'll need both me and my ID pass. Even your badges won't get you past security. With my invitation, I can get at least one of you into the vault."

It had already been decided that Painter would be that one. Monk and Creed would maintain a defensive perimeter outside and offer backup.

Painter had also reviewed the security at the seed vault. The place was sealed behind steel-reinforced doors, monitored by a sophisticated video-surveillance system, not to mention patrolled by the couple of thousand polar bears that roamed the island. Additionally, for this event, a contingent of the Norwegian army would be on hand to bolster security.

So crashing this party without the senator would be as hard as cracking into Fort Knox.

Recognizing all this, Painter finally relented. He straightened in his chair and eyed everyone. "Then before we land, let's figure out what we know-and, just as important, what we don't. Once we hit the ground, we'll need to jump."

Monk nodded. "Where do we start?"

"With our primary target, Ivar Karlsen." Painter focused on Gorman. "You've worked with him for years. What can you tell us about him?"

The senator leaned back, clearly trying to rein in his anger, but his expression remained black. "If you'd asked me that yesterday, I would've said he was a rugged, stand-up sort of guy, someone who knows how to make a buck, but also knows the responsibility behind such wealth. Sort of Rockefeller crossed with FDR."

"And how did you first meet?"

"Through the Club of Rome. I joined simply to make political and business connections. What better way to firm up my career than to hobnob with an international group of industrialists, politicians, and celebrities." He shrugged, shameless about his ambition. "But then I met Ivar. His passion was electric, his rhetoric compelling. He firmly and wholeheartedly believes in preserving the world, safeguarding mankind's future. Sure, some of his suggestions for managing population growth may be extreme. Mandatory birth control, sterilization, paying families not to have children. But someone has to make those hard choices. It's what drew me to him to begin with. His no-nonsense manner and sensibility. But I wasn't the only one in his inner circle."

Painter's interest sharpened. "What do you mean?"

"Within the Club of Rome, Ivar gathered like-minded people, those who also believed tough choices were needed. We were sort of a club within the club. Each of us worked on special projects for him. Mine, like I said, was to use my political clout to expand biofuel development. But there were other projects overseen by various members of the circle."

"Like with bees?" Monk asked, referring to the test hives he had seen in the subterranean lab. He rubbed at a stinging welt on his cheek.

The senator shrugged. "I wouldn't know. We each ran our separate projects."

"Then let's talk about the project that started this whole mess," Painter said. "Where all the bloodshed seemed to originate. It all flows back to the genetic research done at Viatus, specifically the testing of its drought-resistant corn. We know Viatus funded the research into extremophiles and that they discovered some fungal organism in the mummies preserved in the English peat." Painter nodded to Monk. "And we know that research continues today and that those bodies found at the mushroom lab were likely from the test farm in Africa."

Painter had already set in motion an order to search those underground labs. But Viatus was one of the largest corporations in Norway, with massive global and financial ties. By the time some judge okayed a search, Painter suspected that the corporation would have purged those labs, leaving behind only sterilized, empty rooms.

"So I think it's safe to conclude," Painter finished, "that the mysterious genes noted in the corn seeds by Professor Malloy at Princeton were from that fungal source. And that apparently those genes are unstable. Possibly making the corn dangerous to consume."

Gorman shook his head. "But why massacre the village? The corn wasn't even meant for human consumption."

Painter had one explanation. "It was a refugee camp. Food was scarce. Hungry people get desperate. I wager some locals sneaked into the fields at night and stole an ear or two of corn for their families. And maybe those who were running the farm turned a blind eye to such trespasses. It would offer the corporation the perfect chance to conduct real-world human studies without needing to acknowledge it."

"Only no one anticipated the gene altering itself," Monk said with a grimace. "After learning that, they had to wipe the slate clean, but not before collecting a few test subjects along the way. Who would miss a refugee or two, especially in a firebombed camp?"

Painter noted that the senator had grown pale, that his gaze had slipped into a thousand-yard stare. Grief shadowed his eyes. But it was more than that.

"Viatus is already shipping their new drought-resistant corn seed," Gorman said. "They have been for the past week. Fields are already being planted for the season across much of the southern hemisphere and equatorial latitudes. Millions of acres."

Painter sensed something worse coming. Gorman had gone pale. It suddenly struck Painter. To mass-produce the seed for global distribution, Viatus had to have already grown it somewhere and harvested it.

But where?

"The production fields for this new corn seed," Painter asked. "Where are they?"

Gorman would not meet his eye. "I helped broker the deal for Viatus. GM seed production is a billion-dollar-a-year industry. It's like pouring money into cash-strapped areas." His voice went dull with shock. "I spread the money out. Throughout the U.S. corn belt-Iowa, Illinois, Nebraska, Indiana, Michigan...thousands and thousands of acres, in a patchwork across the Midwest."

"And this is the same corn that they were testing in Africa?" Monk asked.

"Not exactly, but it was in the same genetic line."

"And probably just as unstable," Painter added. "No wonder they burned down that test farm in Africa. The cat was already out of the bag."

"But I don't understand," Monk said. "How could that seed already be planted? What about safety studies?"

Gorman shook his head. "Safety studies on genetically modified foods are a joke. Food additives get more testing. GM foods have no formal risk assessment guidelines and rely mostly on self-regulation. Approvals are based on filtered or outright fraudulent reports by the industry. To give you some idea, of the forty GM crops approved last year, only eight have published safety studies. And in the case of the seeds being shipped by Viatus, they are not meant for human consumption, so they're even less on any agency's radar. And besides...I helped push it through."

The senator closed his eyes and shook his head.

No wonder Karlsen needed him, Painter thought.

"Still, if the corn's not meant for human consumption," Monk said, "maybe the danger can be contained."

Creed finally spoke up and quickly quashed this hope. "It will still get into the human food supply."

All eyes turned to him.

The newest member of Sigma seemed to shrink a little under their combined attention, but he held up. "After what happened in Princeton, I looked a little deeper into GM crops. In 2000, a GM corn called StarLink, a corn not approved for human consumption like the Viatus strain, ended up contaminating food products across the country. More than three hundred brands. It was suspected of triggering allergic reactions and resulted in a massive recall. The Kellogg Company had to close its production line for two weeks just to clean out the contamination."

The senator nodded. "I remember. The government had to buy up Kellogg stock to keep the industry afloat. Cost us billions."

"And that was only one of many such reports of foreign GM products ending up in the human food supply." Creed glanced over at Painter. "There remains a much larger concern about all this."

"What's that?"

"Pollen migration and genetic contamination."

Frowning, Painter waved for him to explain in more depth.

"There is no way to contain pollen movement of a GM crop. It blows in the wind, gets washed into neighboring fields. Some seeds have been found growing as far away as thirty miles from a planting. So don't be fooled. Wherever fields are planted with the Viatus corn, it will spread from there."

"And genetic contamination?"

"Even more concerning. There have been cases of genetic modifications passing from engineered species into wild ones, spreading the contamination at the genetic level into the biosphere. And with the instability noted by Dr. Malloy in the Viatus corn sample, I think that likelihood is even greater."

"So what you're saying is that the whole Midwest could be contaminated?" Monk asked.

"It's too soon to say that," Painter said. "Not until we have more answers."

Still, Painter remembered what Gray had discovered in England. The mummies in the peat bog had been riddled with mushrooms, just like the bodies found at the lab. Had Karlsen unwittingly unleashed that organism back into the world?

Worse, what if it wasn't an accident?

Karlsen had clearly manipulated the senator to his own ends. But what was his goal in all of this?

Only one man could answer that.

The pilot interrupted. "We've begun our descent into Longyearbyen. Please secure your seats for landing."

Painter glanced out the window as the sun finally began to rise. It was high time he had a conversation with that man. Still, he checked his watch. He had one other concern as the jet dipped toward the frozen archipelago, one that grew more worrisome with each passing hour.

11:01 A.M.

Spitsbergen, Norway

"Still no word from Gray?" Monk asked as he stood in the icy parking lot. He wore a snowsuit, boots, gloves, goggles, and carried a helmet under one arm.

Painter shook his head, clutching his satellite phone. "I had hoped by sunrise to have heard something from him. Or from the patrols. They had choppers up at first light, searching the highlands. Fire crews report the entire valley is a smoldering ruin. I also checked with Kat. He's not checked in with Sigma Command either."

Monk read the pain in the director's face. "He had to make it out of there. Maybe there's a reason he's gone silent."

From his expression, Painter took little consolation from Monk's words. If Gray had gone silent, it was because he was in some sort of trouble. The director stared off into the distance.

The sun still hung low on the horizon, reflecting painfully off the ice and snow that covered the island of Spitsbergen. In another month the archipelago would sink into a permanent Arctic night that would last four months. Even at midday the temperature had climbed to only a single degree Fahrenheit above zero. It was a barren place, treeless and broken into sharp peaks and crevices. The name of this island of the Svalbard archipelago-Spitsbergen-translated from the Dutch meant "jagged mountain."

It was not a landscape that inspired hope.

Especially with the dark skies rolling in from the north.

"There's nothing more we can do at our end," Painter finally said, his voice firming again. "I have Kat continuing to monitor reports from both the fire crews and the search-and-rescue teams. She'll do what she can to coordinate a wider search. Until then, we have our own objective here."

Painter stood next to the Volvo SUV he had driven from the airport. Monk had followed in a second vehicle, hauling a trailer behind it. Creed was back there now freeing the two snowmobiles. They'd rented the pair of Lynx V-800 snow machines from a travel service that offered winter safaris into the wilds of the archipelago. The travel agency's logos were painted brightly on their sides.

Inside the Volvo, Senator Gorman sat in the passenger seat. The plan was for the senator and Painter to head directly to the Svalbard seed vault. Monk and Creed would take a more circuitous route overland by snowmobile. The pair would get as close as possible to the vault without raising suspicions, which was the primary reason for the rentals.

According to the tour operator, his company regularly led overnight tours into the mountains to view the wildlife that inhabited the place. But since the construction of the Doomsday Vault, the well-publicized site had become a frequent tourist stop. Their presence should not warrant a second look. Monk and Creed would be ready in case further firepower was needed or a fast evacuation was necessary.

"A back door out of the bank vault," as Painter described it.

The roar of an engine erupted from behind their tow vehicle.

"Let's get moving," Painter ordered. He clapped Monk's forearm in a warm grip. "Stay safe."

"You, too."

The two men headed in opposite directions. Painter climbed back into his SUV; Monk joined his partner by the two snowmobiles. Creed sat atop one, outfitted like Monk in a snowsuit and helmet.

Monk crossed to his machine and hiked a leg over it.

As Painter spun out of the parking lot, Monk checked the assault rifle secured beside his seat. Creed had a matching weapon. They didn't bother hiding the guns. Here in Spitsbergen, where polar bears outnumbered humans, such firepower was a requirement. Even the glossy tourist brochure Monk had picked up at the rental agency had stated, "Always carry a weapon when traveling outside the settlements."

And Monk was not about to break Norwegian law.

"Ready?" he yelled, lifting an arm toward Creed.

His partner revved his engine as answer.

Donning his helmet, Monk twisted his ignition key. The beast roared to life beneath him. Throttling up, Monk edged his snowmobile toward the snowy valley beyond the lot. His machine's rear track bit into the ice with a sure grip. The pair of skis glided smoothly as he dipped over the edge and sped down into powder.

Creed followed in his tracks.

Ahead rose the mountain of Plataberget, home to the Doomsday Vault. Its jagged peak scratched into a lowering sky. Behind it, the world was nothing but dark clouds.

Definitely an ominous place.

Especially as Monk recalled the final warning printed in that tourist brochure. It pretty much summarized this harsh land.

Shoot to kill.

11:48 A.M.

Painter parked his vehicle in the designated slot. They had to pass through two barricades manned by Norwegian military guardsmen on the only road up the mountainside. Other trucks and a large bus already occupied the small parking lot, likely the transportation used by the World Food Summit contingent.

As Painter climbed out of the heated SUV into the icy cold, he also noted a minibus-sized snow vehicle resting on massive treads like a tank. It was a Hagglunds, the official vehicle for exploring Antarctica, painted with the Norwegian flag and army insignia. A couple of soldiers stood near the vehicle, smoking. There was also a smaller two-man Sno-Cat, similarly marked, patrolling the perimeter. Though at the moment, judging by the way it careened and wheeled around out there, someone was doing a little joyriding with it.

Senator Gorman, bundled in a parka, joined Painter and they headed toward the entrance to the seed vault. The only section of the installation that was aboveground was a concrete bunker. It stuck out of the snow at an angle, like the prow of a ship encased in ice. And maybe in some ways it was. Buried below was the Noah's Ark for seeds.

The entrance towered thirty feet, a flat concrete surface decorated at the top with a windowlike plate of mirrors and prisms lit by turquoise fiber optics. It glowed in the darkening day. Already the storm clouds were rolling over the mountain, pressing the sky down on them. A gust of wind kicked up a whirlwind of ice crystals and stinging snow.

Hunched against the cold and wind, they hurried toward the entrance.

Crossing a small bridge, they reached the outer blast doors that sealed the facility. Another pair of armed guards checked the senator's pass and logged in their identification.

"You are very late," one of the guards said in halting English.

"Trouble with our flight," Gorman answered. He grinned good-naturedly at the young guard and shivered against the cold. "Even way up here, airlines still somehow lose your bags. And the cold...brr...I don't know how you can stand it out here. You're made of heartier stuff than me."

The soldier matched Gorman's big grin, as did his partner, who probably didn't even speak English. The senator just had that way about him. Painter had to hand it to him-the guy had charisma. He could turn it on or off like a flashlight. It was no wonder he was so successful in Washington.

The door was hauled open for them. Painter knew that three massive locks secured the vault. As an additional safeguard against malicious attacks, no single person on the planet had all three keys.

Once they were through the doors, the winds cut off, which was welcome, but the air inside was no warmer. Kept at a near constant zero degrees Fahrenheit, it was like stepping into a walk-in freezer.

Down a short ramp, a long circular tunnel stretched, large enough to accommodate a subway train. Underfoot lay cement slabs; overhead ran rows of fluorescent lights and an open lattice of pipes and utility conduits. The walls-steel-reinforced concrete blown with fiberglass-were roughly textured, giving the place a cavelike appearance.

Painter had studied the schematics for the facility. The layout was simple. The tunnel descended five hundred feet and ended at three massive seed vaults, each sealed by its own air lock. The only other feature was a set of office rooms down by the vaults.

Voices echoed up to them. Brighter lights glowed far ahead.

As they walked down the tunnel, Senator Gorman spoke softly and waved an arm at the walls. "Ivar was one of the major financiers for the vault here. He firmly believed in preserving the natural biodiversity of the world and judged all other such seed banks to be inadequate or half-assed."

"I get that about him. Man likes to be in control."

"But in this case, he's probably right. There are over a thousand seed vaults scattered around the world, but a majority of them are threatened. The national seed bank in Iraq was looted and destroyed. In Afghanistan, it was the same. The Taliban broke into their storehouse, not for the seeds, but to steal the plastic containers. And other seed banks are just as fragile. Poor management, suffering economies, failing equipment, all threaten these depositories. But most of all it was a lack of vision."

"And Karlsen stepped in?"

"The vault was the brainchild of the Global Crop Diversity Trust. But when Ivar heard about the project, he added his full support-both financially and vocally." The senator rubbed his temples with his gloved fingertips. "I still can't balance that man with the monster he seems to be. It makes no sense."

They continued in silence. Painter had heard the trace of doubt in Gorman's voice. After the initial shock of betrayal, skepticism had begun to creep back. It was human nature. No one wanted to believe the worst of their best friend or to face their own gullibility and blindness.

Ahead, a group of people massed near the end of the tunnel. The gathering rang with a party atmosphere. Along one wall stood a row of ice sculptures, lit from below to a stunning brilliance: a polar bear, a walrus, a model of the mountain, even the symbol for Viatus. On the other side stood a cold buffet and a steaming coffee bar.

Gorman plucked a champagne flute from a passing hostess. She was dressed in mukluks and a heavy coat. At this event, the parka was the equivalent of a black tie. Two dozen bundled guests crowded the tunnel, but from the number of servers and piles of untouched food, attendance was lower than expected.

Painter knew that the attack at the Grand Hotel-blamed on terrorists-had scared away several of the attendees.

Still, for a party just a hop, skip, and jump from the North Pole, it was a smashing success. At a microphone, a familiar figure was in midspeech. Reynard Boutha, copresident of the Club of Rome, spoke at length about the importance of preserving biodiversity.

"We are in the midst of a genetic Chernobyl. A hundred years ago, the number of varieties of apples cultivated in the United States stood at over seven thousand. Today, it's down to three hundred. Beans numbered almost seven hundred. Now it's down to thirty. Seventy-five percent of the world's biodiversity has vanished in just one century. And every day another species goes extinct. We must act now to preserve what we can before it's lost forever. That's why the Svalbard Global Seed Vault is so important, why we must continue to raise money and awareness..."

As Boutha continued, Painter spotted Karlsen across the crowd. He was flanked by two women. One was svelte and tall with long blond hair, her face mostly hidden within the hood of her parka. The other woman was older and bent Karlsen's ear as Boutha spoke.

"Who's that?" Painter asked, indicating the woman speaking to Karlsen.

"She's the former president of Rockefeller's Population Council and another member of Ivar's inner circle. They've been friends for years."

Painter knew about the Population Council. They were major advocates for population control through family planning and birth control, and if you believed some of the wilder rumors and rhetoric, some of their methods bordered on eugenics.

No wonder Karlsen was such good friends with her.

Gorman pointed out a few other figures in the crowd who were members of the inner cabal. "That large fellow with the beer gut over there represents a major German chemical and pharmaceutical company. Viatus has been researching how to incorporate one of their insecticides into a new generation of GM crops. If he's successful, it would severely lessen the pesticide load needed in fields, making crops cheaper to grow and increasing yields."

Painter nodded as Gorman listed others. It seemed Karlsen's circle consisted of those who were either seeking ways to address the overpopulation crisis or researching ways to increase food supplies. The senator was right. The man did seem to have the world's welfare at heart.

So how did that balance with a man who ordered the massacre of a village and who pushed forward the wholesale release of a genetic threat that could contaminate and corrupt the biosphere?

The senator's earlier assessment was right.

It didn't make sense.

Painter drew his attention back to Karlsen. Before he confronted the man, he wanted to know all the key players. "What about that other woman," he asked, "the blonde practically hanging off Karlsen's arm?"

Gorman squinted. "I don't know. She looks vaguely familiar, but she's not a member of his inner circle. Maybe just a friend."

Satisfied, Painter nudged Gorman and headed through the crowd. In such a gathering, it was doubtful Karlsen would do anything directly to threaten them. Where could he run?

Shifting through the partygoers, Painter soon stood before Karlsen. The man was momentarily alone, having finished his conversation with the Population Council president. Even the woman hanging on his arm had wandered off toward the buffet table.

Karlsen failed to recognize Painter. His gaze skipped over and fixed on Senator Gorman instead. The Norwegian's face immediately brightened with delight as he thrust out an arm.

Reflexively, Gorman shook it.

"Dear God, Sebastian," Karlsen said. "When did you get here? How did you get here? I tried calling your hotel when you didn't show up at the airport. With all the commotion after that attack last night, I couldn't get through. I thought maybe you'd flown home."

"No. Security just moved me to a new hotel," Gorman explained smoothly. "I couldn't make it to the airport in time, and I didn't want to hold everyone up. So I booked my own flight."

"You didn't have to do that. I insist that Viatus cover your expenses."

Painter watched the two interact. Though the senator put on a good show, he was plainly out of sorts, clearly on edge and unsettled.

Karlsen, on the other hand, looked genuinely pleased to see the senator. His expression was sincere. Painter could read no evidence that the man standing here had ordered the senator's assassination the night before. Either Karlsen truly wasn't involved or he was one frighteningly cool customer.

Gorman glanced over at Painter. The senator's expression radiated growing doubt. He stammered for a moment, then lifted a hand toward Painter. "I think you've already met the investigator from the office of the Inspector General."

The Norwegian's weighty gaze dropped on Painter. A moment of confusion settled back to recognition. "Of course, I'm sorry. We spoke briefly yesterday. You'll have to forgive me. It's been an insane twenty-four hours."

Tell me about it, Painter thought.

As he shook Karlsen's hand, he continued to study the man's face, looking for cracks in his demeanor. If the man knew Painter was more than just a DCIS agent, he wasn't showing it.

"The senator was kind enough to allow me to join him," Painter said. "I had hoped we might still conduct our interview. I only have a few questions, to tie up some loose ends. I promise it won't take long. Maybe there's a private place we could chat."

Karlsen looked put out, but he glanced over at Gorman. Maybe for just an instant, Painter spotted a flicker of guilt. It had been the senator's son who had been killed in the massacre in Africa. How could he say no in front of a grieving father?

Karlsen checked his watch, then nodded toward a doorway off to the right. "There are some offices back there. Catering has taken up the front half, but there's a small conference room that should be unoccupied."

"That will do fine."

They headed off together.

From across the crowd, Painter noted the blond woman staring at them. Though her expression was deadpan, it was also colder than the Arctic temperature in the vault. Caught looking, she glanced away.

Abandoned at the party, she did not look happy.

Krista watched the trio enter the vault's administration office. That couldn't be good.

Moments ago, she had almost choked on the olive floating in her vodka tonic, shocked to see the black-haired Sigma operative appear out of nowhere. With Senator Gorman in tow. She had barely gotten out of the way in time.

She stared at the office door as it closed. How could they be here? She thought she'd left them far behind in Oslo.

Suddenly feeling as if eyes were upon her from all directions, she adjusted the hood of her parka so its mink-lined edge better shadowed her face. She was glad she had taken the extra precaution to don a blond wig for the excursion here. She didn't want any more trouble like with Antonio Gravel.

She retreated down the tunnel. It ended at a cross passage that branched into the three seed vaults, each secured by air locks. With everyone still listening to speeches, she had the place to herself for the moment and a chance to regroup.

Leaning her back against one of the seed vault doors, she clutched the phone in her pocket. She had not heard any word from her superior. What was she supposed to do? He had told her that he'd take care of the Sigma operative, but here the man was with the senator. Should she act on her own? Wait for orders? At her level in the organization, she was expected to think on her feet, to improvise as needed.

She took several deep breaths and let a plan crystallize. If she had to act, she would. For now, she'd just see how matters unfolded here. Still, that didn't mean she shouldn't take precautions.

She slipped out her phone. So far underground she had no hope of getting a cell signal. But after arriving here she had excused herself from Ivar's side and found an outside line in the office computer room. She had wired a booster into the line so she could use her phone here.

She dialed one-handed. She had men standing ready at Longyearbyen. It was time to call them in. As the line was picked up, she spoke tersely and ordered them to secure all roads off the mountain. She wanted no surprises.

Once done, she clicked off the line and felt more settled. It was the waiting that had worn on her more than anything. It felt good to act, in even this small way. She adjusted a stray blond hair back in place. She should head to the restroom and recheck her makeup.

But before she could take a step, the phone vibrated in her hand. Her entire body went cold and trembled in sync with her cell. She lifted it to her ear.

"Yes?" she answered.

A familiar voice responded and finally passed on her orders. They were simple and direct.

"If you want to live, get out of there now."

Chapter 19

October 13, 10:13 A.M.

Aberdaron, Wales

Gray rolled their SUV down the long hill toward the church by the sea. They had driven all night, taking turns at the wheel, napping in between. Everyone looked exhausted.

In the rearview mirror, Gray saw Rachel staring out the window. She had not slept at all. Her eyes looked hollow. She often kept a palm pressed to her belly, plainly scared about what was brewing inside her, a biotoxin that could kill her in three days.

On the other side of the vehicle, the woman who had poisoned her seemed unconcerned. Seichan had slept most of the night. She wasn't worried that they might escape. They couldn't even risk calling for help. If Seichan was taken into custody, Rachel was dead.

"Professor," Gray said loudly enough to stir Wallace as he drowsed between the two women. Rufus, roused from the rear compartment, stretched his neck.

"We there?" Wallace asked grumpily.

"Almost."

"About bloody time."

It had been a long night. They had left the Lake District by pony, going by paths known to Dr. Boyle. Well before sunrise, they had ended up in the highland village of Satterthwaite, where they abandoned their ponies in a farmer's field. Gray had hot-wired an old Land Rover for their use.

But before that, during the long horseback ride, Gray had questioned the professor at length about the object they'd been ordered to find: the key to the Doomsday Book. According to Wallace, a myth surrounding the book claimed that hidden in its cryptic Latin text was a map to a great treasure.

"It's all rubbish, I tell you," Wallace had finished dismissively, glaring pointedly at Seichan.

She had shrugged. She had her orders, too.

Needing some lead to follow, Gray had pressed Wallace about the travels of Father Giovanni, specifically where the Vatican archaeologist had gone after visiting the stone ring in the peat bog. Wallace knew few details, as Father Giovanni had become more and more secretive over time. The professor offered only one bread crumb they could follow.

"After what we found in the Lake District, Marco went off to explore another spot marked as 'wasted' in the Domesday Book, the oldest of those entries."

Wallace had gone on to explain how an island in the Irish Sea was the first to be described in the Domesday Book in that strange manner. Bardsey Island lay off the coast of Wales. According to Wallace, Father Giovanni had gone to speak to a priest who knew the history of that island very well.

That's where they were headed now. After leaving the Lake District, they had driven south all night, returning to Liverpool again, then continuing into Wales. Their destination lay at the tip of a Welsh peninsula, a finger of land pointed straight at Ireland.

Bardsey Island lay a couple of miles farther out to sea. Gray spotted its gray-green hump against the darkening sky. It was a small isle, only two miles wide. A flush of rain brushed that hilltop and headed slowly toward shore.

Luckily, at the moment their immediate goal lay much closer. The church of Saint Hywyn sat above the beach, facing wind and waves. It was here that Father Giovanni had started his quest.

Gray pulled into the parking lot.

The church was all gray stones and tile roof. Large gothic windows stared out into a grim-looking cemetery. It overlooked a fishing village of colorful stone houses and crooked streets.

They all piled out of the car, stretching legs and hunching against the cold stiff breeze blowing off the sea. Waves rolled heavily against the beach. The air smelled of seaweed and salt.

"I'll stay by the car," Seichan said. "Don't want someone stealing it again."

Gray didn't even bother to acknowledge her. He buried a flicker of fury-not to avoid provoking her, but because she didn't deserve any response from him.

Glad to be free of her, Gray led them around the side of the church toward the rectory. On the trip down to Wales, he had used Seichan's phone to call ahead to Saint Hywyn's and arrange a meeting with Father Timothy Rye. The priest had been pleased about his interest, until he learned the reason behind the visit.

"Marco's dead?" Father Rye had said. "I can hardly believe it. I just saw him a few months ago."

Gray hoped the priest had information they could use.

Before they even reached the rectory door, it popped open. The priest was older than he sounded on the phone. He was as thin as a stick, with only wisps of white hair atop his head. Bundled in an overlarge wool sweater, he tottered to greet them on a gnarled cane, but he wore a warm, welcoming smile.

"Get yourselves out of the wind before it kicks you in the teeth already." Father Rye waved a bony arm to urge them through his door. "I have a pot on the stove, and Ol' Maggie dropped off a plate of her cranberry scones. Best in all of Wales."

They were ushered into a wood-floored room with rafters so low Kowalski had to duck. The walls were the same stone as the church, and a hearty fire danced in a small hearth. A long table had been set for a late morning tea.

Gray's stomach growled at the floury smell of freshly baked scones, but he wanted to keep the visit short. Time squeezed his chest. He checked on Rachel. The old priest had already taken a shine to her, practically taking her by the hand to the table.

"You sit here. By me."

Father Rye shuffled a bit. Wallace still hung at the door with Rufus, plainly not sure whether to leave his dog out in the cold.

"What are you waiting there for?" the priest scolded. "Get yourselves out of the cold."

The invitation was for both. Rufus headed inside even before Wallace moved. The terrier made straight for the fire, curled up, and dropped with a sigh.

Once the rest of them settled, Gray started in. "Father Rye, can you tell us why Father Giovanni-"

"Poor boy." The priest cut him off and crossed himself. "May he rest in peace." He turned and patted Rachel on the hand. "And I'll say a prayer for your uncle in Rome, too. I know he was a good friend of Marco's."

"He was and thank you."

The priest turned back to Gray. "Marco...now let me think. He first came here to the church some three years ago."

"That would be just after he first visited my excavation," Wallace added.

"He came quite often after that, traipsing all over Wales. We talked about all manner of sorts, we did. Then last June, he returned quite agitated from Bardsey Island. Like he'd been spooked to the bone. He prayed all night in the church. I heard him, I'm afraid-not that I was eavesdropping, mind you-asking over and over again for forgiveness. When I woke the next morning, he was gone."

Gray returned to that first visit. "Did Father Giovanni say why he first came here?"

"Aye. He was on a holy pilgrimage to Bardsey Island. Like many people before him. To pay homage to the dead."

Gray tried to sort through what he was hearing. Clearly the good father hadn't been totally honest with the elderly priest. But a few words made sense. "What dead are you talking about?"

"The twenty thousand saints buried on Bardsey." The old man pointed an arm toward the small window, which looked out to sea. The island was all but lost to sight as rain poured heavily over it. "Marco wanted to know all about the history of the dead."

Gray did, too. "What did you tell him?"

"What I tell all pilgrims. That Bardsey Island is a sacred place. Its history is a long one, going back to the peoples who first came to these fair lands. The ones who stood the stones on end and built the ancient cairns."

Wallace perked up here. "You're talking about the Neolithic tribe who first inhabited the British Isles."

"Aye. You can still find their hut circles up on Bardsey. It was a sacred place even back then. Home of royalty. Do you know the Celtic tales of the Fomorians?"

Gray shook his head. Wallace's eyes pinched. He plainly understood but wanted to hear what the old priest had to say.

"What are Fomorians?" Rachel asked.

"Not what, but who. According to Irish legends, when the Celts first came to these islands, they found them occupied by an ancient race, quite monstrous. Supposedly they were descendants of Ham, who had been cursed by Noah. The Celts and Fomorians fought over Ireland and its islands for centuries. Though not as skilled with swords, the Fomorians were known to be able to cast plagues upon their invaders."

"Plagues?" Gray asked.

"Aye. To quote one Irish ode, they cast out a 'great withering death' upon their enemies."

Gray glanced at Rachel and Wallace. Could this be the same as what wiped out the highland village?

"Other stories abound over the centuries," Father Rye continued, "of great wars and wary peace between these two peoples. The Irish storytellers do admit it was the Fomorians who passed on knowledge of agriculture to the Celts. But at the end, one last great battle was fought on Tory Island, and it resulted in the death of the Fomorian king."

"But what does all this have to do with Bardsey Island?" Wallace asked.

The priest lifted one brow. "As it is said, Bardsey was home to ancient royalty. According to local stories, it was on Bardsey that the Fomorian queen made her home. She was a great goddess who had the power to heal the sick, even cure the plagues."

Wallace mumbled under his breath, "No wonder Marco kept coming back."

Gray wanted to ask Wallace what he meant, but Father Rye was on a roll.

"And so the Celts took possession of all the lands. But even their priests, the Druids, recognized how sacred this region was. They made their center of learning on nearby Anglesey Island. Students gathered from all over Europe to study there. Can you imagine? But it was Bardsey Island that the Druids considered to be the most holy. Only the most elevated of the Druids were allowed to be buried there. Including the most famous Druid of all time."

Wallace must have known this legend. "Merlin."

Seichan stood on the leeward side of the Land Rover, keeping out of the wind. She opened and closed a folding knife while keeping watch on the rectory door. She didn't fear anyone trying to escape, nor even using the rectory phone. Though to ensure the latter, she had slipped over and cut the telephone wires.

She could have simply gone inside with them, but piecing together bits of history was not her specialty. She looked down at the knife in her hand. She knew where her talents lay. And she didn't need Gray distracted. She felt the fury radiating from him, stoking higher the closer she came. So she stayed away. She needed him focused.

For all their sakes.

She had watched the Audi sedan slip into the nearby town soon after they arrived. They were being watched from afar. Her handler, Magnussen, was keeping her on a short leash, tracking them out of the mountains. The hunters skillfully swapped out vehicles. She counted at least three tails. Unless you knew to look for them, they would have been impossible to pick out.

But not for her.

With a flip of her wrist, she snapped the folding blade closed and slipped it into her pocket. Sensing eyes on her even now, she needed to move. She abandoned the vehicle and strode toward the door to the old church. Its stone face was cold and imposing, as hard as the people who eked out a living off the sea here. The weight of centuries was palpable. Even its door was massive, scarred, and old. She tried the handle and discovered the church had been left open.

It always surprised her to find a door unlocked.

It felt somehow wrong, an unnatural state of being.

Before she thought better of it, she pulled open the door. The wind was kicking up. No telling how long the others would be. She entered the church and passed through the entry to the nave. Expecting a gloomy, somber interior, she was surprised to discover an airy and high-raftered space. The walls had been painted a creamy white that captured and held the meager daylight flowing through the arched windows. Polished wooden pews flanked either side, and a bright blue carpet led down the center aisle.

The church was empty, but she found herself unable to move any deeper into the nave. Suddenly tired, Seichan slipped into the closest pew and sat down. She stared over at the cross. She was not religious, but she recognized the pain in the crucified image of Christ.

She knew that agony.

Her breathing grew heavier as she stared. Her vision suddenly blurred. The tears came suddenly, welling up from somewhere deep inside. She covered her face as if trying to stop them, hide them, deny them.

For a long moment, she remained bent in the pew, unable to move. A pressure built inside her chest. It grew to an excruciating point, something large trying to squeeze out a small hole. She waited for it to pass, prayed for it to end-and eventually it did, leaving her both hollow and strangely disappointed. A shudder shot through her body, just once. She then took a long trembling breath, wiped her eyes, and stood up.

She turned her back on the cross and headed out of the nave and out of the church. The cold wind struck her and slammed the door behind her. It reminded her of an important lesson.

People should keep their doors locked.

Gray tried not to scoff. "You're saying Merlin is buried on Bardsey Island?"

Father Rye smiled and sipped his tea. "Of course, we all like to tell that story around these parts. It's said he's buried in a glass tomb on the island. It's surely fanciful, but it makes for a fine story, don't you think?" He winked at Rachel. "Though many do believe, including a few historians, that the Arthurian legends of Avalon arise from Bardsey."

Kowalski spoke around a mouthful of scone. "What's Avalon?"

Gray nudged him under the table. They didn't need the old priest rambling off the subject. They had to find out more about Father Giovanni.

But he was too late.

"Ah, according to Celtic legend," Father Rye explained, "Avalon was an earthly paradise. It was where King Arthur's sword, Excalibur, was forged. Where the enchantress Morgan Le Fay ruled. It was an island of rare apple trees, granting the place its name, from the Welsh word afal. Avalon was considered a place of great healing and longevity. And at the end of the Arthurian cycle, it was where King Arthur was taken to be healed by Morgan Le Fay after the Battle of Camlann. And of course, like I said, it was where the magician Merlin was buried."

Wallace's face grew more sour with the telling. "Bollocks," he finally burst out. "Everyone thinks Avalon or Camelot is in their own backyard."

Father Rye took no offense at the professor's outburst. "As I said, it's only legend. But like Avalon, Bardsey Island has long been considered a place of great healing. Even a travel book from 1188 attests to this claim. The writer described the people of Bardsey as being uncommonly free of disease and 'scarcely any die except of extreme old age.' And then, of course, we must not forget our magical apples."

"Apples?" Kowalski asked.

"Maybe we should move past myths," Gray commented, trying to redirect the conversation back to Father Giovanni.

"They're not myths." Father Rye stood up, crossed to a bowl on a counter, snatched up an apple, and tossed it toward Gray. "Does that feel like a myth to you, young man? Maggie's son picked that from a tree growing on the island just last week."

Gray frowned down at the fist-sized fruit.

"There is no other apple like it on earth," Father Rye said proudly. "A few years back, some apples from that tree were taken to the National Fruit Collection in Kent. They tested the Bardsey apple and determined two things. First, that the tree was a new variety never seen before. And second, that the apple was unusually free of any rot or disease. They tested the gnarled old tree itself and found it to be in the same health. Arborists believe the tree may be the lone surviving specimen from an orchard that the monks of Saint Mary's once planted on the island a thousand years ago."

Gray stared at the small apple in his hand, sensing the passage of time and history it represented. No matter what one might believe, there did seem to be a long, strange history of healing tied to this island: first the Fomorian queen, then the Celtic legends of Avalon, and now in his hand, something that had been scientifically proved to be unusually healthy.

He looked out the window at the hump of green land.

What was so special about that island?

Apparently Father Rye wasn't done with his history lesson.

"Moving forward through time, all things must come to an end," he said. "And the Celts were no exception. The Romans eventually vanquished them, but only after years of fierce fighting. During this time, the Romans claimed that the Druids cast curses upon their troops, just as the Fomorians had done to the Celts long ago. And after the Druids were gone, the Church came here and settled these pagan lands. They set up an abbey on the island in the thirteenth century. The ruins of its tower can still be found there."

Wallace drew their conversation full around. "But what about the twenty thousand saints you mentioned at the beginning?"

Father Rye sipped his tea, nodding at the same time, but somehow never spilling a drop. "Bardsey is known as the Isle of Twenty Thousand Saints. A name marking the number of persecuted Christians buried there."

"So many?" Wallaced pressed. "Surely there's no archaeological evidence for such a mass burial?"

"You are right. I imagine the legend is more allegorical than literal. Though local folklore does whisper of a great death that fell on Bardsey, a withering sickness that slew most of the villagers and monks. Their bodies were burned to ashes and cast out to sea."

Gray recognized the pattern of that story. Just like the highland village. All evidence burned and swept away, leaving only rumor and a cryptic entry in the Domesday Book.

"Either way, the island has been considered holy ground since the Church first came here. Bardsey grew to become a place of pilgrimage, from ancient times to today. The Vatican declared that three trips to Bardsey were equivalent to one trip to Rome. Not a bad deal, if you ask me. And many others thought the same."

Father Rye pointed in the direction of his church. "The oldest part of Saint Hywyn's dates back to 1137. Through its doors, thousands and thousands of pilgrims have flowed on their way to Bardsey. Including most of the Irish and English saints of that time."

As if summoned by the priest's words, the rectory door burst open and a tall boy pounded into the room with all the verve that only a thirteen-year-old could muster. The boy quickly pulled off his cap to reveal hair so red it looked ready to set fire to the room.

"There you are, Lyle," Father Rye said and stood up. "Does your da have his ferry ready for our guests?"

Lyle eyed the crowd. "He does, Father. He ran me up to fetch 'em. Though they'd better be quick. The blow's kicking up fierce already."

Father Rye placed his palms on his hips, looking forlorn at losing his guests. "You best be going. You don't want to be caught midcrossing when that storm hits."

Gray nodded. "Let's go." He got everyone moving toward the door.

"Can my dog stay with you?" Wallace asked the priest. "There's one thing Rufus can't stomach and that's boats."

Father Rye's smile returned. "I'd like that. You can nab him up on your way back."

Rufus looked happy enough with that decision. He lowered his head back to his paws as he lay by the fire.

As Gray headed to the door, Father Rye called out, "Lyle, when you get to the island, make sure you show them the Hermit's Cave."

Gray glanced back.

Father Rye winked at him. "Where Merlin is buried."

11:22 A.M.

Rachel eyed the ferry doubtfully. The small boat looked sound enough. It was a double-hulled catamaran, with a covered pilot's cabin in front and an open deck in the stern. She had been on such boats before when diving in the Mediterranean. They were notoriously stable and reliable.

Still, as she watched it roll and tilt in the chop, Rachel grew concerned. With one hand clutching her coat closed at her neck, she stared into the stiff wind. She could smell the rain. Though dry here, a heavy downpour swept toward the coast.

Her expression must have been easy to read.

"The Benlli's a good boat," the ferryman attested. Decked out in a heavy sweater and yellow slicker, he was Lyle's father, Owen Bryce. His boy bounced over the rolling deck with the agility of a red-haired monkey. His father watched him proudly. "Don't you fret, miss. We'll get you there safe. She runs low with a steep deadrise."

Rachel didn't know what he meant, but she took confidence in his vocabulary. He seemed to know what he was talking about.

Lyle appeared and offered her his hand. She took it as she hopped from jetty to boat. Gray and Wallace were already aboard, with their heads together. Kowalski followed behind with Seichan.

Rachel kept away from Seichan and took a seat next to Gray. Still, she sensed the woman's presence-not because she was staring at Rachel, but because she purposefully wasn't. It made her angry. She felt she deserved at least to be acknowledged.

To take her mind off Seichan and the rocking boat, she focused back on Gray. He had to speak loudly as the catamaran's twin outboard engines gurgled to a roar.

"Back at the rectory," Gray said, "I heard you mumble something about not being surprised Father Giovanni kept coming back here."

Rachel had heard the same. It had been when Father Rye had been talking about the pagan queen.

Wallace nodded. "Aye. As a historian of Neolithic Britain, I'm quite familiar with the Irish tales of the monstrous Fomorians who supposedly first inhabited the lands here. It was said they were giants who ate people alive. But it was the vicar's description of them as descendants of Ham, a figure straight out of the Bible, that must have pinched Marco's nose and kept him focused here."

"How so?" Gray asked.

"To start with, Celtic tales were all told orally. Spread by word of mouth. The only reason we even have them today is because of the Irish monks who survived the ravages of the Dark Ages in seclusion, who spent their days meticulously decorating and illuminating manuscripts. They preserved the core of Western civilization through the Middle Ages. Including preserving Irish legends and sagas by writing them down for the first time. But what you must understand is that the monks were still Christians, so in their retelling, many of these stories took on a biblical slant."

"Like the Fomorians being described as descendants of Ham," Gray said.

"Precisely. The Bible never actually denotes a race for these cursed descendants of Ham, but early Jewish and Christian scholars interpreted the curse to mean that Ham's descendants were black-skinned. It was the way that slavery was once justified."

Gray sat back, understanding dawning in his face. "So what you're saying is that the Celts described the Fomorian queen as being black, so the monks made her a descendant of Ham."

Wallace agreed. "A dark-skinned queen who could cure the sick."

"And to Marco, she was possibly an early pagan incarnation of the Black Madonna." Gray looked out toward the island as the boat churned into the choppier open waters. "Perhaps even the legends of the sorceress Morgan Le Fay and Avalon tie back to that same mythology. Another woman bearing magical healing powers."

Rachel's eyes widened. "No wonder Father Giovanni became obsessed with this place."

"For that reason, and also the key." Wallace folded his arms and easily rolled with the boat's motion.

"The key to the Doomsday Book?" Rachel asked. "I thought you said that was rubbish."

"I may have thought it was rubbish, but Marco didn't. All the legends of the key suggest that it unlocked a vast treasure, a treasure that could save the world. Marco believed I was on the right course in studying the places marked as 'wasted.' And I'm growing to think he's right."

"Why's that?" Gray asked.

"Father Rye's stories. He spoke of how the Fomorians battled the invading Celts by casting plagues on them. It was said the Druids did the same when the Romans invaded. So it makes me wonder if the Celts learned something from the conquered Fomorians, something more than just agriculture. A new means of warfare, a new weapon. Maybe there was a core of truth behind these stories. A truth buried in the Domesday Book."

Rachel began to get a glimmer of where he was headed, but Gray got there first.

"You think that ability to cast plagues survived into the eleventh century. Maybe an early form of biowarfare."

Rachel pictured the condition of the mummies. Emaciated, with mushrooms growing internally.

"Could someone have poisoned these villages with some sort of fungal parasite?" Gray asked. "And if so, who?"

"As I said before, all the villages noted in the Domesday Book were located in places of friction between Christians and pagans. And I think it's especially telling that the first place struck was Bardsey Island. Hallowed ground for the Druids. They could not have liked the monks and Christians being here."

"So you think some secret sect of Druids wiped them out?"

"And after that, they took their war to the mainland of England. I suspect they began casting these plagues in the borderlands in hopes the conflict would spread throughout England."

Wallace had to catch himself as the ferry hit a huge wave. Once reseated, he continued. "Perhaps the hidden purpose of the Domesday Book was to map these incursions, to keep track of them. The census takers who compiled the book were sent out to all corners of Britain, collecting information from villagers and townspeople alike, surely doubling as spies."

"Did it work?" Rachel asked, caught up in the story.

"Well, those hot spots never did spread," Wallace said with a shrug. "Someone must have found a way to thwart the attacks. Then buried it safely away."

"The key to the Doomsday Book," Gray said. "You believe it's some sort of cure."

Wallace touched the tip of his nose, acknowledging the same.

"And we're on the right track?" Gray asked, glancing significantly at Rachel. They didn't have much room for error.

His hand slipped over hers, squeezed her fingers, then let go. She wished he had kept on holding. His skin had been hot, his grip reassuring.

Wallace answered Gray's question. "Marco certainly believed in the key. And judging from that gruesome little keepsake of his, he discovered something. And we know he started here at Bardsey."

The professor nodded toward the growing bulk of the dark island. It was buried in the storm. And a moment later, so were they. The winds kicked up, blowing freezing slaps of water across the boat. Then rain suddenly pounded the boat, as if trying to drive them under the sea. Visibility dropped to yards.

"Hang tight!" Kowalski bellowed from the pilothouse, where he stood with the captain. "Swells dead ahead!"

The bow of the boat rose high, pointed at the sky-then dropped like a rock. After that, motion became a blur. The ferry lurched and heaved, rocked and pitched.

Without warning, Rachel's stomach did the same. A queasy heat swept through her. Her hands went clammy and cold. She didn't have time to make it to the ship's water closet. She swung around in her seat, bent over the rail, and emptied her stomach in a single large wrack of her body. It left her so drained she had a hard time keeping a grip on the wet rail.

Below her face, the sea surged up and down, looking ready at any moment to wash up and over her. Her hands slid. She felt herself tipping.

Then strong arms closed around her, holding her firmly but gently.

"I've got you," Gray said.

She leaned against him, her stomach still rolling with the waves. The rest of the trip was no smoother, but he never left her side.

After what seemed like hours, land filled the world ahead. The storm grew less fierce. Rain receded to a drizzle. A long concrete slipway stuck out into the small harbor, next to it a stone jetty. The ferryman slid his boat skillfully beside the dock as Lyle ran and tossed bolsters between the jetty and the boat. Moments later, they were tied up.

Rachel clambered happily off the rocking boat. The solid crunch of stones under her feet had never felt so good.

"Are you okay?" Gray asked.

She had to take some personal inventory before slowly nodding. "I think so. Just glad to be away from the waves."

Gray touched her arm. Concern shone in his eyes. "Are you sure it was just the waves?"

Rachel wanted to nod again. But she placed a hand on her belly, remembering what Seichan had said about the poison. One of the first symptoms was nausea.

She glanced back to the boat.

What if it wasn't the waves?

12:05 P.M.

Bardsey Island, Wales

The tractor climbed up the hill from the harbor. It dragged a hay trailer behind it, and its straw-strewn bed held a collection of sodden people. A tarpaulin staked over the trailer shielded against spats of rain, but it offered no protection against the cutting wind.

Gray huddled below the sides of the trailer, trying his best to hide from the more stubborn gusts. The worst of the storm had abated for the moment, but the sky to the west only grew darker, threatening a worse gale to come.

As they climbed the hill, a panoramic view of the small island opened up. Behind the trailer, out at the tip of the island, rose a tall red-and-white-striped lighthouse. It blinked into the storm with a steady turn of its lamp. Between the lighthouse and the hill was farmland. There were only a dozen or so full-time residences on Bardsey Island, mostly farmers and those who rented cottages to visiting hikers, bird-watchers, and pilgrims.

The only roads were dirt. The only vehicles were tractors.

They'd definitely stepped into another era.

As they neared the crest of the hill, the tractor slowed to a halt. The boy Lyle hopped from the back of the tractor to the bed. He was their official driver and tour guide. He crouched in the middle of the bed as a roll of thunder echoed over the hilltop.

Lyle waited for it to fade, then spoke. "Father Rye said you might be wanting to visit the old Hermit's Cave. It's off a wee bit on foot. I can show you."

Kowalski patted his pockets, looking for a cigar. "Not really feeling like paying the hermit a visit."

Gray ignored Kowalski and joined Lyle. "You said you helped Father Giovanni before and that he spent most of his time at the ruins of the old abbey. Did he spend any time up at the cave?"

"Not really. Just once at the beginning. Don't think he went back after that."

Gray knew he had better take a look to be thorough. "Show me."

"I'll go with you," Wallace volunteered. "Be a shame to come all this way and not pay my respects to the dearly departed Merlin."

The sarcasm ran thick in his voice.

Gray glanced at Rachel. She shook her head. She still looked a little queasy, but he wasn't sure if it was from motion sickness, toxicity, or something in between.

He hopped out of the bed and was surprised to see Seichan jump out after him. Without a word, she headed after Wallace and the boy.

Gray suspected that Seichan's interest lay less in the hermit's cave than in a desire not to be left alone with Rachel. Shouldering his pack, he followed after the others up a side trail.

Seichan slowed enough to come even with him. "We need to talk," she said, not looking at him.

"We have nothing to talk about."

"Quit being an ass. Despite what you think, I don't want to be in this position any more than you do. It wasn't my choice to poison Rachel. You know that, right?"

She finally looked at him.

He wasn't buying it.

"The end result is the same," he said. "You get what you want, and others pay the price." He let his spite show. "So how was your visit with the Venetian curator's family?"

Her eyes narrowed. Wounded, angry, she swung away. Her voice grew more brittle.

"Whatever is going on here has the Guild stirred up, from its top brass on down. They're dispensing a huge amount of resources to find this lost key. I've only seen them this mobilized once before. Back when we were searching for the Magi's bones."

"Why's that?" Gray hated to get involved with her, but if she had insight, he dared not dismiss it.

"I don't know. But whatever is happening over at Viatus, it's only the head of the beast. I suspect the Guild has been manipulating and exploiting the corporation merely as a resource. It's what they do best. They're like a parasite that invades a body, sucks it dry, then moves on."

"But what is their end goal?"

"To find that key. But the bigger question is why is the key so important to the Guild? Discover that and you may be one step closer to finding it."

She stopped speaking, letting that sink in. Gray had to admit she was right. Maybe he did have to look at the problem from the other way around, work backward.

She finally continued. "We know that Viatus took those mummies and experimented on them. But the bodies were discovered three years ago. So for years now the project has been running below anyone's radar. I certainly wasn't aware of it. Yet just as Father Giovanni makes a run for the Vatican, the Guild rises up. Anyone with an ear to the ground like mine could hear it. In the last twenty-four hours, they've exposed themselves more than I've seen them ever do before. It was what drew me to Italy in the first place, what made me seek out Rachel."

Gray heard the smallest wince in her voice at the mention of Rachel's name. She grew quiet after that.

Gray filled the silence. "Wallace believes that the key may be a counteragent against some early form of biowarfare. If the Guild can control the key, they can control the weapon."

"You could be right, but the Guild's interest lies deeper than that. Trust me."

Gray fought against reacting to her last words.

Trust me.

Those were two words she had no right to utter.

He was saved from responding when Wallace lifted an arm ahead and pointed down to the ground. "Here it is!"

"Just think about it," Seichan finished. "I'm going back to the tractor."

Gray continued alone to the cave. Lyle had ducked into it. The entrance was shorter than Gray's waist, but it opened into a tiny cave beyond. Kneeling, Gray pulled out a flashlight from his pack and played it over the inside. It was a natural cavern, and except for a dented beer can and a bit of trash, it was nondescript.

If this was Merlin's final resting place, he needed to complain about the accommodations. No wonder Father Giovanni never gave it a second look.

"Nothing's here," Wallace finally concluded.

Gray agreed. "Let's head over the hill."

They walked briskly back as rain began to spatter harder. Once they reached the trailer, they set off again. Lyle drove the tractor over the summit of the hill and down the far side.

Lowlands stretched ahead, again parceled out into tracts of farmland and grazing fields. But at the foot of the hill rose their destination. It was a square tower, half in rubble, rising in the middle of a cemetery. It was all that was left of Saint Mary's Abbey. A newer chapel and chapel house stood off to one side. From this height, Gray could also make out some crumbled foundation walls of the old abbey.

As they descended, Lyle pointed to a small house in the distance. "Plas Bach!" he called out, naming the place. "You can rent that place. It's also home to our famous apple tree."

Gray reached into a pocket of his coat and realized he still had the apple tossed to him by Father Rye. As he stared at the pink apple, it reminded him of the abbey's residents. Both the apple tree and the monks were described in various circles as uncommonly healthy and of amazing longevity. Had the monks of Saint Mary's known some secret? Was it the same secret they all sought now, the key to the Doomsday Book? And if so, how did they come by it?

With a final belch of exhaust, reeking of oil, the tractor ground to a halt at the foot of the hill beside the cemetery. Celtic crosses dotted the grounds, including an especially tall one in the shadows of the abbey's broken tower.

The group climbed out of the trailer bed and dusted off stray bits of straw. The downpour had mostly stopped, which was a relief. But lightning flashed to the north. Thunder rumbled a low warning of more rain to come. They had better work quickly.

Gray stepped over to Lyle. "You said Father Giovanni spent most of his time here. Do you happen to know what he was doing? Is there anywhere he concentrated on looking?"

Lyle shrugged with his whole body. "He was all over the ruins here. Mostly measuring."

"Measuring?"

A nod answered him. "He had tape measures, and what do you call it?" He pantomimed with his arms, holding them askew and eyeballing down them. "Little telescopes for figuring out how high things are and what not?"

"Surveying equipment," Gray realized aloud. "Is there any place he spent lots of time measuring?"

"Aye. Our crosses and over by the old stone ruins."

"Ruins? You mean the abbey?"

Wallace stepped to Lyle's other side. "I think the boy means the ruins of the ancients, don't you, lad?"

"That's correct, sir."

"Can you show us?"

"Of course I can." And he was off.

They followed as a group, crossing through the cemetery. Lyle pointed to each Celtic cross as he passed it. He ended at the tallest in the cemetery. It rose from a small hillock.

"This marks the grave of Lord Newborough," Lyle said. "One of our most famous Bardsey nobles and a great benefactor to the Church."

Gray craned up at it. Father Giovanni surely knew the significance of the Celtic crosses, how they were modifications of older Druid crosses, which likewise had been borrowed from the ancients who originally occupied the British Isles and carved that symbol on their standing stones. One symbol that linked all three cultures, flowing from the ancient past to the present.

Had the key followed the same path? From ancients, to Celts, to Christians?

Wallace stared across the cemetery. "Father Giovanni measured all the crosses?"

"He did indeed."

"And you said he did the same to some stone ruins?"

"Over this way." Lyle circled the rubble of the abbey bell tower and marched into a grassy field. He kicked his feet as if looking for something. "Father Giovanni searched all the ancient hut circles. Most are on this side of the island."

Wallace marched beside Gray. "No wonder the monks set their abbey here. It was common for the early Church to build on sacred sites. Stamping their religion on top of another. Both as a way of getting rid of it, but also to help the newly converted smoothly transition into the new faith."

"Here!" Lyle called out from a few yards to the right. "I think this is the one!"

Gray crossed over with Wallace. The boy stood in the middle of a crude ring of stone blocks half-buried in the turf. Gray walked its circumference.

Wallace scratched his chin. "Are you sure this is the right hut circle? The one our friend was interested in?"

Lyle suddenly didn't look so certain.

Gray stopped at one of the stones. He knelt down and parted the grasses. He stared down at the stone and knew they were at the right place.

On the crude boulder was carved a symbol.

A spiral.

Gray stared across the field. He double-checked with his compass. In a direct path east from here, where the sun would rise on the new day, stood Lord Newborough's grave marker, a giant Celtic cross, whose roots traced back to the same artisans who had carved the ragged spiral on the boulder at Gray's feet.

"This is it," he mumbled.

"What's that?" Wallace asked, not hearing him.

Gray continued to study the distant cross. He didn't need any measuring tools, though he might not have figured it out so quickly if it hadn't been for Lyle telling him about the painstaking survey the priest had done here.

"I know where Father Giovanni looked," Gray said.

Rachel drew closer. "Where?"

"Between the spiral and the cross," Gray said and pointed to Lord Newborough's grave marker. "Like on the stones up at your excavation, Wallace. Crosses on one side, spirals on the other."

"And like the leather satchel," Rachel reminded him.

Gray nodded. "Though Marco never had that advantage. He had to figure all this out on his own. Going by only what he saw at the excavation site. It must have finally dawned on Marco. Possibly literally. Father Rye said that Marco became agitated last June, which meant he was here during the midsummer solstice. The longest day of the year. A sacred holiday for the pagans, especially those who worshiped the sun."

He pointed to the cross and drew a line down to his toes. "I wager it would take calculations to prove it-something Marco likely did-that on the morning of the solstice, the sun's first rays would strike that cross and cast a shadow pointed straight here."

"And that led to Marco's discovery?" Wallace pressed.

"Maybe. I can pace it out to be sure, but I don't think I have to. Look what sits exactly midway between the cross and the spiral."

Gray pointed at the pile of crumbling stones.

"Saint Mary's tower," Wallace said, then turned to him. "You think whatever Marco found was hidden beneath the tower?"

"You said it yourself. That the Church built its holy buildings atop older sacred sites. The island is riddled with caves. Caves that the Druids considered sacred. And stories continue to this day of some powerful magic, personified by Merlin, buried in a cave on the island. What if they got the cave wrong?"

Wallace's voice grew hushed. "Not the Hermit's Cave, but something hidden in secret under the abbey."

Rachel asked a good question. "But how do you look under there?"

"That dead priest sure didn't bulldoze his way in there," Kowalski added.

They were both right. There were no signs of excavation around the tower ruins.

"There must be another way down there," Gray said and turned to the best source for that information. "Lyle, are there any other tunnels or caves somewhere near here?"

"Aye. Lots of caves. But none too close."

It would take them months to search them all. Gray stared over at Rachel. She stood with her arms crossed. They didn't have months.

"But I can show you what I showed Father Giovanni!" Lyle suddenly said brightly. "It's not a cave, but it's just as good."

"What?" Gray asked.

"Come see. My friends and I play down there all the time." Lyle took off like a shot. They had to run to keep up with him.

"We're not in that big of a hurry," Kowalski grumbled.

"Speak for yourself," Rachel said.

Lyle led them back around the tower. This time he headed in the opposite direction from before. He came almost full circle, but then stopped not far from the tall Celtic cross. He pointed to a square hole in the ground, framed by stones.

"What is it?" Wallace asked.

Gray dropped to his knees and stared down. The sides were stacked bricks. Near the bottom, a black niche was cut into one wall.

"Like I said," Lyle answered, "it's not a cave."

Gray grabbed his flashlight. "It's a crypt."

"Aye. Lord Newborough's tomb. Course he's not down there any longer. At least I don't think he is."

"We have to search it," Gray said.

Kowalski shook his head and backed two steps away. "No, we don't. Whenever you go in a hole, bad things happen."

Chapter 20

October 13, 12:41 P.M.

Svalbard, Norway

Monk sent a silent prayer of thanks to the engineers who invented heated handgrips for snowmobiles. The day's temperature continued to drop as the polar storm rolled across the Arctic archipelago. Even bundled in a snowsuit, helmet, gloves, and layers of thermal undergarments, Monk grew to appreciate the advancements of modern snowmobile technology.

He and Creed rested their vehicles in a snowy valley below the entrance to the Svalbard Global Seed Vault. Two hundred yards away, the angular concrete bunker stuck out of the side of Mount Plataberget. It was the only evidence of the vast underground depository.

That, and the patrolling Norwegian army.

Creed's voice came over the radio in his helmet. "Got company coming."

Monk twisted in his seat. Behind them, a two-man Sno-Cat came charging around an icy escarpment. Its tracks chewed across the terrain and cast up a rooster tail of ice and snow.

For the past hour, he and Creed had been playing a cautious game of cat and mouse with the outlying patrols. They tried their best to keep a wary distance without looking as if that was what they were doing. The rental company's logo on the sides of their snowmobiles would only allow them so much latitude.

"What should we do?" Creed asked.

"Stay put."

Their smaller machines could probably outmaneuver the bulkier Sno-Cat, but to flee now would only draw the full attention of the Norwegian army upon them. Instead, Monk lifted an arm in greeting.

Might as well say hello to the neighbors.

For the past hour, Monk had been observing the soldiers, noting their behavior. They spent most of the time chatting with each other in huddled groups. He noted a few cigarettes glowing. Occasionally a bark of laughter would echo off the mountain and reach them. He recognized the general pattern: boredom. Out here in the hinterlands of the frozen north, the soldiers plainly placed their full confidence in the isolation and harsh terrain.

No reason to dispel that attitude.

"Just play it cool," Monk said into the radio.

"If I was any cooler, I'd be shitting ice cubes."

Monk glanced over at him. Was that Creed cracking a joke? Monk lifted his eyebrows. There might be hope for the kid yet.

The side door to the Sno-Cat popped open. Steam wafted out of the heated cab. The soldier didn't even bother to pull up his parka's hood. In fact, he left the coat unzipped. With his blond hair and apple cheeks, he looked like he'd just stepped out of a Ralph Lauren catalog, the Norwegian version.

See the Norwegian in his natural habitat...

Monk took off his helmet, to look less intimidating. Creed did the same. The soldier waved an arm at them and spoke in Norwegian. Monk didn't understand him, but the general gist was plain.

What are you doing here?

Creed answered in turn, stumbling a bit with the language. Monk heard the word American. The kid must be laying out their cover story. Monk supported him by pulling out a book from his parka's pocket, a field guide to birds that he'd picked up at the rental agency. He also lifted the binoculars from around his neck.

Nobody here but us bird-watchers.

The soldier nodded and tried his hand at English. "Storm coming," the Norwegian warned. He waved an arm back in the general direction of Longyearbyen. "Should go."

Monk couldn't exactly argue against that. "We'll be heading back," he promised. "Just stopping to rest."

He rubbed his backside for effect-actually he was sore after trundling all over the glacier-broken landscape.

This earned a grin from the soldier. Over by the Sno-Cat, the other door popped open. The driver hopped out, yelled a warning, then jammed a whistle to his lips and drew his sidearm. As he blew a shrill shriek, he pointed his weapon at them.

What the hell?

Both Creed and the other soldier dropped flat to the snow. Monk hesitated. The soldier fired three times. Monk twisted at the same time and spotted a large lumbering form disappearing around a cluster of boulders off in the distance. The gunman's shots sparked off the stone.

"Polar bear," Creed said needlessly as the blasts echoed away.

He and the soldier regained their feet. Creed had gone pale, but the soldier only smiled and said something in Norwegian that made his companion with the pistol grin.

They seemed not overly concerned. Like scaring away a raccoon from a garbage can. Of course, in this case, Monk and Creed were the garbage cans. The polar bear must have been stalking them since they'd stopped.

The first soldier motioned toward town, warning them off.

Monk nodded.

The two soldiers climbed back into the Sno-Cat, sharing a joke, clearly at the Americans' expense.

Creed returned to his snowmobile. "What do we do now?"

"We keep patrolling. But this time, why don't I watch the seed vault, and you keep an eye out for anything looking to eat us."

Creed nodded and put on his helmet.

Monk lifted his binoculars and focused across the valley. He hoped Painter wouldn't be too much longer. If he and Creed continued to idle around here, suspicions would begin to arise. Especially with the storm about to hit.

Adjusting the focal length on his binoculars, he brought up a clear image of the bunker entrance. He watched the door open and the slim figure of a woman rush out. One of the guards tried to engage her. Who wouldn't? Even from two hundred yards away, it was plain she put the sex back in sexy.

She snubbed the guard with a raised palm and hurried toward the parked vehicles. Apparently she'd had enough of the party-and could not get away fast enough.

12:49 P.M.

The interview quickly went bad.

Painter and Senator Gorman had followed the CEO of Viatus into the set of offices off the main vault tunnel. A staging area for the caterers had been set up in the central room with desks shoved to the walls and replaced by rolling food-tray cabinets, chafing dishes, and storage bins. Dessert was being prepared, which apparently involved a chocolate fountain. The place smelled like a Hershey's factory with an underlying hint of Norwegian cod.

They hurried through the space to a back office. Inside, a pair of computers glowed at either end of a long table. Between them, organized into neat rows, were piles of aluminum packets. Along a neighboring wall were stacked a half-dozen black plastic storage bins. One was open on the floor, full of the silver envelopes.

"Seed shipments arrive daily," Karlsen had explained, playing tour guide. "Unfortunately, now they're backlogged due to the party. But tomorrow these boxes will be sorted, cataloged, registered by country, even..."

That's when things went wrong.

Maybe it was the nonchalant manner of the CEO, or maybe it was clear to all that Karlsen's rambling discourse hid a well of guilt. Either way, as soon as the office door was shut, the senator lunged out and grabbed a fistful of Karlsen's shirt. He slammed him into the stacked bins.

Stunned by the sudden attack, Karlsen did not react for a breath. Then his face collapsed into a muddle of confusion.

"Sebastian, what are you-?"

"You fucking killed my boy!" Gorman yelled at him. "Tried to assassinate me last night!"

"Are you insane?" Karlsen shoved both arms out and broke free. "Why would I try to kill you?"

Painter had to admit that the guy definitely sounded shocked. But he also noted that Karlsen failed to deny the murder of the senator's son. Painter came between them. Red-faced, Gorman retreated a step. He turned his back, plainly trying to regain his composure.

Inwardly Painter kicked himself. He hadn't noticed Gorman ramping up like that. He should have reined him in sooner. They weren't going to get anything out of Karlsen by driving him into a defensive posture. The man would put up walls that they'd never get through.

Painter readjusted his strategy. With Karlsen shaken, and before the man locked down completely, Painter knew he had to strip away any attempt at pretense.

"We know about the mushroom farm, about the bees, about what was covered up in Africa." Painter hit him with charges one after the other. While Karlsen might have been able to take one blow, the rapid series of punches gave him no chance to recover.

His facade momentarily crumbled, revealing his complicity, his knowledge. He was not a pawn or a blind figurehead. Karlsen knew damned well what was going on.

Still, the man tried to backpedal. The flash of guilt vanished behind a wall of denial. "I don't know what you're both talking about."

No one was fooled.

Least of all a grieving father.

Senator Gorman flew at the man again. Painter didn't try to stop him. He wanted Karlsen off balance, hit from all sides. Morally, psychologically, physically. Painter would use all the tools he had at hand.

Gorman barreled into Karlsen, ramming a shoulder into his chest and driving the man back into the wall. Lifted off his feet, Karlsen struck the wall hard. The breath gasped out of him. The senator had been a defensive lineman in his college years.

But Karlsen was no doddering old man. He raised his arms and slammed his elbows down hard on the senator's back. Gorman was knocked to his knees.

On the ground, the senator got an arm behind Karlsen's left leg. With a roar, Gorman hugged and twisted hard. He threw the murderer of his son facedown on the floor, then piled onto his back and pinned him to the floor.

"You killed Jason!" Gorman growled at the man, his voice trapped between fury and sob. "You killed him."

Karlsen struggled to free himself, but Gorman held him down. The CEO's face became beet red. He twisted his neck, trying to get a look at Gorman. His voice spat at his accuser. "I...I did it for you!"

The words momentarily stunned the senator. But Painter wasn't sure if the shock came from the sudden confession or the strange statement. A part of Gorman must have hoped Painter was wrong. Now there was no illusion.

"Shut the fuck up," Gorman warned, not wanting to hear anything more.

With the one domino dropped, Painter knew he could get the others to fall. What he had thought might take a full day had been accomplished in minutes. But they were far from finished here. Karlsen could recant. He was still on home turf in Norway, with powerful ties and connections.

Painter knew he had to take advantage, to control the situation. That meant getting Karlsen out of here and keeping him in custody. For that, he would need to call in some help.

"Keep him there," Painter said.

He crossed to the computers and searched behind them. There had to be a communication trunk feeding into this room. A T1 or T3 line for Internet connectivity, but more important-

Painter's fingers found the telephone line. He pulled and traced it back to the wall. With no cell service up here, he needed to radio Monk, but buried underground, that was impossible. He would have to tap into an open line using a device known as a SQUID to boost the signal. As his fingers ran along the wire to the wall, he found some gadget already plugged into the telephone outlet. He pulled it out and immediately recognized its function.

Cell signal booster.

It wasn't that sophisticated, but the technology was above anything he'd seen here. It felt out of place. He examined it closely and recognized a short-range transmitter wired into it.

Why would someone need a short-range transmitter wired to a telephone line?

He could think of only one reason.

The door crashed open behind him.

He swung around as Copresident Boutha stormed into the room. A few other men stood behind him. Boutha frowned in confusion at the scenario he'd burst in upon: Karlsen on the floor, the senator kneeling on his back.

"Caterers reported yelling...," Boutha began, then shook his head. "What is going on here?"

Using the distraction, Karlsen was able to throw an elbow back and catch Gorman in the ear. Knocked to the side, Gorman couldn't stop Karlsen from rolling free.

Boutha and the others still blocked the way out. Trapped, Karlsen turned to face Gorman, only to find a fist flying toward his nose. He dodged enough to avoid a broken nose, but he took a hard punch to the eye and stumbled back a few steps.

"Stop!" Painter bellowed, freezing everyone in place with the force of his command.

All eyes turned to him.

Painter pointed an arm at Boutha. "We must evacuate this facility. Now!"

"Why?"

Painter looked down at the foreign device in his hand. He could be wrong, but he saw little reason for a short-range transmitter.

Except one.

"There's a bomb hidden somewhere down here."

Shocked reactions and questions tried to follow.

Painter cut through them. "Get everyone out!"

Unfortunately, they were too late.

12:55 P.M.

Monk edged his snowmobile through the valley, making a slow slaloming pass along the bottom. Creed followed in his tracks, watching for polar bears. Monk kept an eye on the concrete bunker that marked the entrance to the seed vault.

Overhead, the storm had rolled a mass of dark clouds over the mountain. The sky pushed lower and dropped the temperature with it. Winds also picked up, scouring through the valley in blinding gusts of ice crystals.

Monk called for a stop. He thought he had heard something, or at least felt something deep in his chest. He cut the engine. The low rumble continued, coming from the cloud layer overhead, like distant thunder to the north. Before he had a chance to question it, the rumble turned into a roar, then into a scream. A pair of jets shot out of the clouds and raced straight down the valley toward Monk and Creed.

No, not toward them.

As the jets passed overhead, they veered sharply back up with a shriek of acceleration. Missiles fired from their underbellies. Hellfire rockets. The missiles struck the snowy ridge where the seed vault was buried. A line of fire exploded across the mountain face. Rocks and flames shot high. The concussions pounded Monk and Creed.

Up on the ridge, men went flying, some torn to fiery shreds. Others fled on foot or slid down the mountainside. Monk watched a large Sno-Cat tumble into a crater that once was the lone road up there.

As the smoke cleared, Monk searched the ridge. The bunker still stood, but one side had been blasted black and a large chunk of it had cracked away. The missile strike had only dealt a glancing blow.

Then a new rumble grew in volume. Monk feared the jets were scrambling for another pass. But this noise was accompanied by cracking detonations.

As Monk watched in horror, the entire mountainside above the bunker began to slide. A massive section of glacier broke loose and crashed, breaking into smaller and smaller pieces, gaining speed and turning into an avalanche of ice.

It swamped the bunker and buried it completely.

More soldiers were caught and crushed in its path.

And still it kept coming.

Toward them.

"Monk!" Creed screamed.

Dropping back into his seat, Monk thumbed the ignition. His engine roared. He gunned the throttle. The rear track chewed snow, then found traction. Twisting the handle, Monk pointed an arm to the far side of the valley.

"Get to high ground!"

Creed needed no guidance. He had already turned and was flying toward the opposite side. The pair of them raced across the valley floor, trying to get clear.

Monk heard the avalanche strike behind him. It sounded like the end of the world, a detonation of ice and rock. A chunk of glacier the size of a one-car garage bounced past Monk on the right. Ice pelted his snowmobile and his back.

Monk hunkered down. He could go no faster. He had the throttle fully open.

As the avalanche's leading edge reached them, ice boulders pounded alongside their vehicles. A river of dancing pebbles washed under and around them. The smaller bits of glacial ice had been polished smooth during the grinding plunge, turning into a flood of diamonds.

Then they were headed up.

The front skis of the snow machines carved a swift path up out of the valley. The icy monster behind them tried to give chase, but then gave up and settled back into the valley.

To be sure, Monk climbed higher before calling for a stop. Keeping his engine running, he turned and surveyed the damage. A fog of ice crystals clouded the lower valley, but it was clear enough to see to the far ridge.

There was no bunker.

Just broken ice.

"What do we do?" Creed asked.

A shout answered him. They both turned to the left. A pair of Norwegian soldiers appeared, rifles on their shoulders. Only now did Monk spot the Sno-Cat parked higher up the slope.

It was the same pair as before.

But this was no friendly visit like the earlier one.

The soldiers kept their weapons up. After what had happened, they must be ringing with suspicions, half-blind with anger and shock.

"What do we do?" Creed asked again.

Ever the teacher, Monk showed him by raising his arms. "You surrender."

1:02 P.M.

Painter stood in the dark.

The lights had gone out with the first explosions. At first he thought the hidden bomb had gone off. But as the series of concussive blasts continued, echoing down from above, Painter guessed a missile strike against the mountainside.

It was confirmed a moment later when a massive grumbling roar erupted. It sounded like a freight train running over them and crashing away.

Avalanche.

Screams and shouts echoed from the tunnel as guests and workers panicked. This deep underground, the darkness was absolute and sought to smother you.

Painter remained rooted in place, taking inventory. For the moment, they were still alive. If there was a hidden bomb down here, why hadn't it gone off at the same time as the missile strike?

He squeezed the transmitter in his hand. Pulling the device out of the wall outlet may have saved all their lives, preventing a signal from being telephoned in and triggering the bomb.

But they weren't out of danger yet.

If Painter had planned this attack, he would've built in a secondary backup plan. Something set on a delayed timer to account for any mishap. He thought hard and fast. The transmitter had a limited range, especially with all the rock. If a bomb was planted, it had to be close, likely brought in recently.

The caterers?

No, too many and too risky. Somebody would've seen it.

Then he remembered Karlsen's earlier words as they entered the back office: Seed shipments arrive daily. Unfortunately, now they're backlogged due to the party.

The storage bins.

Blind, Painter stepped over to the stacked boxes. He fumbled the top off one and shoved his hands into it, all the way to the bottom. He sifted through the heat-sealed aluminum seed packets.

Nothing.

He knocked the bin aside. It crashed in the dark.

"What are you doing?" Gorman shouted, startled.

Painter didn't have time to answer. Desperation kept him silent. He found nothing in the second bin-but as he yanked the lid off the third, a glow shone from inside the box, buried under a layer of seed packets.

In the darkness, the tiny light shone as brightly as a beacon. The other men drew closer. Painter picked aside the packets and exposed what lay beneath.

Numbers on an LED display glowed back at him.

09:55

As he watched, the counter ticked downward.

The room's lights flickered, went off, then came back on. The emergency generators had finally kicked in. Out in the hall, the screaming immediately quieted. While their situation was no better, at least they would die with the lights on.

Painter reached inside and carefully lifted out the object. He doubted it had been rigged with any motion-sensing trigger. The storage bin had been shipped, likely roughly handled in transit. Still, he cautiously lowered it to the floor and knelt beside it.

The object was the size of two shoe boxes, roughly barrel-shaped. The LED display glowed on the top. A net of wires folded into the metal casing under it. Military lettering-PBXN-112-stamped into its side left no doubt in Painter's mind as to what they all faced.

Even Boutha guessed.

"It's a bomb," he whispered.

The man, unfortunately, was wrong.

Painter corrected him. "It's a warhead."

1:02 P.M.

Krista braked the four-wheel-drive truck at the foot of the mountain. As she fled down the icy road, she had watched the missile barrage in her rearview mirror. Flames had filled the world behind her. Concussions had rattled her truck windows. A moment later, the glacial ridge of the mountain had broken away and shattered across the entrance to the seed vault.

By the time her truck came to a stop, her hands still trembled on the steering wheel. Her breathing remained hard.

She had fled immediately after the phoned warning. What if she had been delayed, been slowed up for some reason? There had been no margin for error.

Still, she had survived.

The terror in her was slowly transformed into a strange elation. She was alive. Her hands balled into fists on the steering wheel. A bubbling laugh of relief shook out of her. She fought to compose herself.

To either side of the road, men appeared in camouflaged polar snowsuits. A tank of a vehicle on massive treads trundled to block the road.

She had nothing to fear. Not any longer. These were her forces.

She shoved the truck door open and headed over to join them. Snow had begun to fall. Heavy flakes drifted through the air. She climbed up into the cab of the giant vehicle. The rear passenger compartment was packed with grim-faced men bearing assault rifles.

Outside, the others mounted snowmobiles.

The road into the mountains might be gone, but she still had work to do up there. There would be stragglers after the bombing, and she had her orders.

No survivors.

1:04 P.M.

"Can you stop it?" Senator Gorman asked.

In the back office, the others all gathered around Painter and the warhead on the floor, even Karlsen. He looked as sick as anyone. This must not have been his play. Especially since he was trapped with them. Painter did not have time to contemplate the significance of that.

Instead, he faced the others. "I need someone to run and check on the condition of the upper tunnel," he said calmly and firmly. "Have we caved in? Is there a way out? And I need a maintenance engineer ASAP."

Two of Boutha's men nodded and ran back out, all too happy to flee away from the warhead.

"Can you defuse it?" Karlsen asked.

"Is it nuclear?" Gorman followed up.

"No," Painter answered both of them. "It's a thermobaric warhead. Worse than a nuclear weapon."

They might as well hear it straight. The warhead was a form of fuel-air explosive. The casing was filled with a fluorinated aluminum powder with a PBXN-112 detonation charge buried in the center.

"It's the ultimate bunker-buster," Painter explained as he studied the device. Talking helped him to concentrate. "It's a two-stage explosion. First, detonation casts a massive cloud of fine aerosol. Enough to fill this entire tunnel. Then the powder ignites in a burning flash. This creates a pressure wave that crushes everything in its path, using up all the oxygen at the same time. So you can die four ways. Blown up, crushed, burned, or suffocated."

Ignoring the gasps around him, Painter focused on the detonator. His expertise wasn't in munitions but in electronics. It didn't take him long to recognize the tangle of lead, ground, and dummy wires. Cut the wrong one, change the voltage, trigger a shock...there were a thousand ways for it to blow up in your face and only one way to stop it.

A code.

Unfortunately, Painter didn't know it.

This wasn't like the movies. There was no bomb expert to defuse it at the last second. No clever ploy to implement, like freezing the warhead with liquid nitrogen. That was all cinematic crap.

He looked at the clock.

In less than eight minutes, the warhead was going to blow.

The pounding of feet alerted them to the early return of a runner.

"No cave-in," the man gasped out. "Ran into one of the soldiers coming back down. Outer blast door held. He opened it. It's just a wall of ice out there. We're buried. So thick, he said, you can't see any daylight through it."

Painter nodded. The strategy made sense. The vault had been engineered to withstand a nuclear strike. If you wanted to kill everyone down here, toss in a warhead like this and seal it up tight. If the firestorm didn't kill you, the lack of remaining oxygen would.

That left his second option.

The other runner appeared with a tall Norwegian built like a refrigerator. The maintenance engineer. His eyes spotted the warhead on the floor. He went pale. At least he was no fool.

Painter stood, drawing his attention up from the bomb. "Do you speak English?"

"Yes."

"Is there any other way out of here?"

He shook his head.

"Then those air locks for the seed rooms. Are they pressurized?"

"Yes, they're maintained at a strict level."

"Can you adjust them higher?"

He nodded. "I'll have to do it manually."

"Pick one of the seed banks and do it."

The engineer glanced around the room, nodded, then took off at a dead run. The man definitely was no fool.

Painter turned to the other men-Boutha, Gorman, even Karlsen. "I need you to gather everyone into that seed vault. Now."

"What are you going to do?" the senator asked.

"See how fast I can run."

1:05 P.M.

With his hands on his helmet and no ability to speak the language, Monk had a hard time negotiating for their freedom.

The Norwegian soldiers continued to level their weapons at the prisoners, but at least their cheeks weren't pressed as firmly against the rifle stocks. Creed pleaded their case. He had his helmet off and was speaking rapidly, a mix of Norwegian and English, accompanied by charades.

Then a voice started to rasp in Monk's ear, full of static, coming from his helmet radio. Most of the communication dropped out. "Can you hear...help...no time to..."

Despite having a rifle pointed at his face, Monk felt a surge of relief. He recognized the voice. It was Painter. He was still alive!

Monk tried responding. "Director Crowe, we read you. But it's choppy. Is there any way we can help?"

He failed to get any response. The tone of Painter's voice didn't change. The transmission wasn't reaching him.

Creed had heard Monk's outburst. "Is that the director? He's still alive?"

The two rifles focused on Monk.

"Alive but trapped," he answered. He held up a hand, struggling to listen to the radio. The transmission remained crap. There was a lot of rock to get through, even for a SQUID transmitter.

The soldier barked at him. Creed turned and tried to explain. Their stern faces shifted from anger to concern.

As static buzzed in his ear, Monk considered his options. How long would the oxygen last in there? Could they get heavy digging equipment moved up there fast enough, especially with the road bombed out?

Then a few words burst through the static. It squashed his momentary hope. Painter's words were chewed apart by the static, but there was no mistaking the threat.

"Down here...a warhead...We'll try to..."

Static cut off the rest.

Before Monk could relate the bad news to Creed, a rumbling echoed over the mountains, accompanied by the whining roar of snowmobiles.

They all turned.

Down the mountainside, a cluster of vehicles slowly wound up from the lower valley, heading their way.

Monk lifted his binoculars and focused on one of the snowmobiles. Men were double mounted. While one drove, the other had a rifle up on a shoulder. They were all dressed in polar suits. Snow-white, with no military insignia.

A stray Norwegian soldier had somehow made it halfway down the mountain already. He waved at the approaching party.

A rifle cracked.

Blood spattered against the white snow.

The soldier dropped.

Monk lowered his binoculars.

Someone had come to clean house.

1:09 P.M.

Painter didn't know if his radio transmission got out. He had plugged the SQUID into the wall and hoped for the best.

All he could do now was run.

He pushed a caterer's serving trolley ahead of him. Strapped on top with bungee cords was the warhead. He sprinted up the hundred and fifty yards of the tunnel.

The LED display glowed back at him.

04:15

As he ran, he watched it tick down below the four-minute mark. At last, he spotted the outer blast door at the top of the exit ramp. It had been left open by the guard who had peeked out. Chunks of ice had spilled inside, but beyond the door was a solid wall of broken glacier.

With a surge of speed, he shot up the ramp. He wanted the charge placed as close to that opening as possible. Reaching the top, Painter shoved the trolley cart toward the door, spun on a toe, and sprinted in the opposite direction.

At least it was all downhill from here.

He fled, breath gasping, trying to lengthen his stride.

If he couldn't stop the bomb, he might as well make use of it. He didn't know how thick the plug of ice was over the door, but the warhead's thermobaric payload was unique. The initial blast could help break some of the ice; then, as the cloud of fluorinated aluminum ignited, the searing heat would vaporize and melt more. But it was upon the secondary blast wave that Painter pinned all his hopes.

The biggest threat of a thermobaric bomb was its sudden and massive burst of pressure. Exploded inside caves or closed buildings, the pressure wave would travel outward and kill around corners and far down passageways. It pulverized and sheared flesh. Burst eardrums, exploded lungs, squeezed blood out of every orifice.

Painter hoped it could also blast out that plug of ice, pop it free like a champagne cork.

But, of course, without crushing them all to pulp in the meantime.

As he hit the bottom of the tunnel, he sprinted into the lower cross passage. He skidded around the corner and sped to the center air lock.

He ripped the door open, heard the pressure pop, then slammed the hatch shut behind him. Air valves in the ceiling chugged to bring the pressure back up. As Painter crossed the air lock, the door flew open ahead of him.

Senator Gorman held it and waved Painter into the seed room. "Hurry!"

Painter dove through. Gorman closed the door with a steel clang.

A crowd gathered around the door, keeping together despite the size of the vault. The seed bank itself was unremarkable, just a cavernous room full of numbered shelves. Identical black storage bins filled the racks, like a warehouse club that sold only one item.

Someone in the group was counting down loudly.

"Eleven...ten...nine..."

Painter had barely made it back in time. After breaking the air lock seal, he prayed the pressure had a chance to rebuild in time. Their best chance to survive the coming blast was to fight pressure with pressure.

If the air lock didn't hold, they'd all be crushed.

"Eight...seven...six..."

Karlsen pushed through to join Painter. His eyes were wide. "Krista's not here," he said, as if Painter knew what that meant.

Someone else did. "Krista...Krista Magnussen? Jason's girlfriend?"

Anger flashed in Senator Gorman's voice.

Painter shoved the two men apart. "Later."

First, they had to survive.

The countdown continued.

"Five...four...three..."

Chapter 21

October 13, 12:32 P.M.

Bardsey Island, Wales

As Gray prepared to descend into the crypt, the true heart of the storm rolled over Bardsey Island. It was as if the gods themselves warned against violating the tomb.

With a crack of thunder, the skies opened up. Rain poured down in large drops that shattered like bombs upon gravestones and markers. To the north, lightning crackled in forking chains.

"I'll go first," Gray said between thunderclaps.

The boy Lyle had run to the nearby chapel house to fetch a rope. But with the rain falling so hard, Gray feared the tomb could flood before any of them had a chance to search it.

The crypt's opening was a hole in the ground about two feet wide, barely enough room for one person to climb through. It dropped seven feet to a stone floor. Below, it was wider, maybe twice as large as the opening. He couldn't see more without going down.

Grabbing the sides, Gray lowered himself into the hole. He used his legs to brace himself, then dropped the rest of the way down. He landed in a crouch and freed his flashlight.

He stared up at the others' faces.

"Be careful," Rachel said.

"Let me know what you see," Wallace added.

Both Kowalski and Seichan hung farther back.

Gray clicked on his flashlight and searched the main shaft. The sides were natural rock archways that framed brick walls, slightly inset. He imagined coffins and moldering bones behind those bricks. And perhaps one of those bodies was Lord Newborough's.

As rain sluiced down the walls, Gray took the time to examine each surface. He ran his hands over them, searching for loose stones, some indication that Father Giovanni had been here and discovered something.

"Well?" Wallace called down.

"Nothing."

Rachel pulled away, but her voice reached him. "Lyle's coming back with the rope."

Gray turned his attention to the fourth wall. Here the bricks framed a low archway, barely taller than midthigh. Crouching, Gray shone his light down into it. The space was plainly meant to hold a coffin. Afterward, the archway would have been walled up like the others. But currently the niche was empty.

He knew the hole had to be important. This wall faced the ruins of the abbey's tower. Dropping to his hands and knees in the pooled water, Gray crawled into the niche. It was deep. Beyond the opening, the bricks disappeared and solid rock surrounded him. Gray worked slowly to the back of the tomb.

He patted the sides, ran his palms over the surfaces.

Nothing.

Though frustrated, he remained confident. Whatever was hidden had to lie beneath the ruins of Saint Mary's. But maybe he was wrong about the access point. Maybe it wasn't this crypt. Father Giovanni could have searched it upon Lyle's suggestion-just as Gray was doing-then moved on.

He heard a splash behind him as someone joined him in the crypt.

He retreated and climbed out of the niche. Rachel stood there. Her hair clung wetly to her face. Her eyes glowed under the shine of his flashlight, full of hope. He could not fail her.

"Dead end?" she aked.

He grimaced, not appreciating her choice of words, nor happy with his lack of success. "I don't see any sign that Father Giovanni has been down here."

"Can I try?" she asked and held out her hand for his flashlight.

How could he refuse?

He passed her the light. She crouched on one hand and sidled into the empty tomb. Her lithe physique allowed her more maneuverability in the tight space. Her flashlight swept along the walls.

"See anything?" he asked.

"No."

From above, Wallace voiced Gray's earlier concern. "Maybe we're in the wrong hole."

Rachel gave up and swung around. In a demonstration of limberness, she turned herself fully around in the niche and headed back out-then froze.

"What is it?" Gray asked.

"Come see."

Her flashlight was pointed straight back at him. Shielding his eyes, he started to crawl in toward her.

"No," she warned. "Slide in on your back."

Gray obeyed. Soaking wet, he rolled over and scooted on his elbows and pushed with his legs into the niche. Faceup was the proper position for lying in a grave.

"What'dya see down there?" Wallace called.

"Don't know yet," Gray answered as he shimmied deeper.

"All the way back," Rachel urged.

He kept sliding in. Eventually his head rested between her knees. She leaned over him with the flashlight. She smelled of wet wool. He was all too conscious of her breasts above his head.

"Look," she said.

He was, but she probably meant where the flashlight was pointed. He had to squirm up to his elbows and look back toward the entrance. He didn't see anything at first, just the back half of the brick wall that closed off the natural stone niche.

"Notice how all the bricks are laid horizontal, but look at the three around the lip of the opening. At the top and to either side."

Gray saw it now, too. "They're placed vertically."

The opening was a perfect half circle. The three vertical bricks marked off the 12, 3, and 9 o'clock positions.

"Do you think it's significant?" Rachel said.

Gray did. "It's like half of the pagan cross."

In the reflection off the pooled water, he could almost see the other half of the circle. He pictured completing the symbol, drawing lines to connect the stones. It would form the Druid cross they'd been following from the beginning.

"But what does it mean?" Rachel asked.

"Let me try something."

Gray crab-crawled on his elbows back out of the niche, then reversed himself and went in on his belly, feetfirst this time. He hoped he wasn't completely soaking himself for no reason.

Wallace called down, "Well?"

"Still working," Gray answered in a strained voice.

He got under the entrance and examined the three bricks. The two to the side seemed nondescript and solidly mortared. Stretching up, he grabbed the top brick. It seemed no different-until his probing fingers scraped along the top lip. There was a slight indentation, perfect for a grip.

He snagged his fingers in place and tugged.

The stone pivoted out. It caught for a moment, but as he pulled harder, a metallic snap sounded behind him-followed by a grinding of rock. They both twisted and glanced over their shoulders. The back wall swung open, revealing a narrow staircase leading down.

"The entrance," Rachel murmured near his ear. "We found it."

It took some maneuvering to back their way through the door and into the stairwell. Though narrow, it was wide enough to stand up in.

Rachel shone her flashlight down the short flight of brick steps. "Is that a tunnel at the bottom of the stairs?"

Gray climbed down to investigate, but as his boot hit the fifth step, he felt the stair sink an inch under his weight.

Another metallic snap sounded.

His heart stopped as a single word crystallized in his mind.

Trap.

Behind them, the door swung closed. Rachel yelled and leaped for the exit. She was too late. The door sealed with a distinct and final click.

She pounded on the stone door, but it was no use.

They were locked in.

12:42 P.M.

Seichan heard Rachel yell-then a crack of thunder deafened everyone standing over the crypt.

As it echoed away, Wallace leaned over the hole. "Didya find something down there?"

There was no answer.

Seichan also noted that the glow of the flashlight had vanished. Something was wrong. Reacting on instinct, she tucked her arms and dropped smoothly through the narrow entrance. She landed with a splash, absorbing the impact with her knees. Her fingers already clutched her lighter. She shoved her arm into the dark niche and flicked the lighter on. The flame's glow flickered all the way to the back of the crypt.

It was empty.

"What's going on?" Wallace called from above.

"They're gone."

Kowalski moved closer to the crypt, dripping wet and sullen. Lyle had gone to fetch some umbrellas. "What did I tell you...never go down a hole with Pierce."

"It might be a good thing," Wallace said.

Kowalski turned on him with a baleful eye.

"They must have found the secret entrance," Wallace elaborated.

But Rachel's cry had not been a happy one of discovery.

Seichan leaned into the crypt. She shouted with all her lung power. "Pierce! Rachel!"

Lightning flashed and thunder rolled, but Seichan made out a faint call. At least they were still alive. She climbed in farther.

"I can't understand!" she shouted.

A loud splash startled her. She glanced over her shoulder and saw Wallace standing behind her, one hand on the rope.

"I wouldn't do that," Kowalski warned from above.

"Be quiet!" Seichan snapped.

She cocked her head and listened. She made out Gray's voice. She closed her eyes, straining. His commands were clipped. She imagined him cupping his mouth and shouting.

"Just inside! A vertical brick! Above the entrance! Yank it!"

Needing both hands to search, she flipped her lighter closed and twisted her body fully into the crypt. Feeling blindly along the entrance to the crypt, fingering the bricks, she found one that fit Gray's description. She reached to the top, discovered a carved indentation to grip, and yanked hard.

A loud snap sounded.

The back wall of the crypt swung open. She spotted the panicked face of Rachel. Gray stood at her shoulder.

"Got locked in," Gray said. "Get the others, but be careful of the fifth step. It seals the door."

Behind Seichan, Wallace shone his flashlight at them. "You found the way in. Brilliant! Simply brilliant!"

After a minute of wrangling, they all made it safely down the stairs to the lower tunnel. A dark stone passageway headed steeply away.

Kowalski declined to join them, calling down from above. "You go on. I'll wait for the umbrellas."

Off to the side, Rachel spoke. "Look at this." She pointed her flashlight at a thick bronze lever in the floor near the foot of the stairs. "I think it might be a release to unlock that secret door."

"Must have been how Father Giovanni came and went," Gray said. "Still, we should keep the exit jammed open just in case."

As a precaution, he had lodged a loose chunk of headstone from the cemetery to hold open the doorway. Seichan respected his decision. She preferred keeping a back door open in case of trouble.

Wallace pointed his flashlight down the tunnel. "Medieval monks often crafted trapdoors and hidden rooms in their abbeys and monasteries. Places were riddled with secret passageways like this. It was one of their means of hiding from marauders. Additionally, the tunnels offered a way to spy on their guests. Knowledge proved to be as much of a defense in those hard times as any shield."

"Then let's go see what these monks were hiding down here," Gray said and led the way.

The others followed. Seichan stayed at the rear.

The passageway dropped steeply, but it did not take long to reach the end. The tunnel opened into a domed space. There were no other exits.

"We must be directly under the ruins of the tower," Gray said.

Wallace ran one hand along the wall. "No chisel or pick marks. It's a natural cavern."

But the professor's eyes remained focused on the middle of the chamber. A massive sarcophagus rested in the center of the room. It stood waist high and looked like it was carved out of a single block of stone.

Beyond the casket, against the far wall, stood a Celtic cross.

As the others moved toward the sarcophagus, Seichan studied the cross. It was not as ornate as the others in the abbey cemetery. This one was stark and more crudely hewn, making it seem more ancient. The only decorations were a few spirals done in bas-relief, and the cross's circular element had been scored into tiny blocks.

Dismissing the cross, the others had turned their attentions to the stone coffin resting on the floor. The sides were featureless, its lid secured in place.

"Could it be Lord Newborough's resting place?" Rachel asked.

Wallace leaned a hand on the lid and ran his fingers over the rough side. "Too old. If Newborough's down here, he's most likely buried off in one of those other sealed crypts. This is someone else's grave. Also, the sarcophagus is made out of bluestone, same as the region's Neolithic standing stones. It must have been quarried somewhere on the mainland and shipped all the way here. Quite an undertaking. My guess is that this is the grave of one of those ancient ring-builders, possibly one of their royalty."

Rachel spoke. "Like the Fomorian queen?"

"Yes, our dark goddess," Wallace said, but he suddenly became distracted.

With a frown, he leaned down. He held his flashlight against the side of the sarcophagus and cast his light across its surface. His fingers ran along the stone. "It looks like there was once a carving here. Some type of decoration, maybe even writing. But someone ground it mostly off."

His frown deepened at such desecration.

Gray glanced up. "If this dates back to the Neolithic period, the Church could have scrubbed away the original markings."

"Aye. That would be like them. If something didn't mesh with their dogma, it was often destroyed. Look what happened to the Mayan codices, a vast font of ancient knowledge. The Church deemed them to be the devil's work, and all but a few were burned."

Seichan recognized a contradiction and moved closer. "Then why didn't they just destroy the sarcophagus? Why go to the trouble of scouring it clean?"

Wallace answered, "If it is a grave marker, they might have respected its interment. The Church, at the time, was not above its own superstitions. They might not have wanted to disturb the bones."

Gray voiced his own interpretation. "Or maybe what was stored here had value to them."

"Like the Doomsday key," Rachel said.

Seichan ignored Rachel's glance in her direction. She merely crossed her arms.

Gray bent down and examined the lid. "It looks like it was wax-sealed at one time." He lifted his hands and rubbed flakes from his fingers. "But somebody broke that seal."

"It had to be Father Giovanni," Rachel said. "Look over here." She had moved over to the old cross and pointed at the walls to either side.

Drawn in charcoal were notations and calculations done in a crisp modern hand. It looked like Father Giovanni had measured every dimension of the cross. He'd also drawn a perfect circle around it. More lines crisscrossed it in an unfathomable pattern. To Seichan, it had a vaguely arcane look.

What was Marco doing here?

Gray studied the cross. Seichan saw the calculations going on behind his expression. If anyone could find that key, it was this man.

Gray finally turned away. Seichan suspected that a part of his mind was still working on the mystery of the cross, but he pointed over to the sarcophagus.

"If Marco broke that seal, let's see what he discovered."

1:03 P.M.

It took all of them to shift the lid.

How had Father Giovanni done it on his own? Gray wondered as he braced his feet and shoved. Did he have help? Or did he haul down some tools?

Still, brute force proved sufficient. With a scrape of stone on stone, they pushed the top askew but kept the lid balanced on the top.

Gray shone his flashlight down into the interior of the sarcophagus. The hollow space was hewn out of the bluestone block. He had been expecting some moldering bones, but though there was room for a body, the sarcophagus was empty.

Except for one item.

A massive book, bound in thick leather, rested in the center. It stretched a foot wide, just as thick, and two feet long. It looked perfectly preserved. Most likely the tome hadn't been disturbed since it was first closed up and sealed with wax.

Gray reached for it.

"Careful," Wallace warned, his voice hushed. "You don't want to damage it. We should be wearing gloves."

Gray hesitated, sensing the age of the text.

Despite his words of caution, Wallace waved impatiently at Gray. "What are you waiting for?"

Swallowing, Gray gingerly placed two fingers on the edge of the book. Surely Father Giovanni had already opened it at least once. As Gray lifted the heavy cover, the book's binding, likely sinew and long dried, resisted opening.

"Gently now," Wallace urged.

Gray pulled the cover fully open and leaned it against one wall of the stone chest. The first page was blank, but it was transparent enough to see through to the rich colors of the next page.

Wallace shifted closer. "Dear God..."

The professor reached down himself and pulled back that first page. "It's calf vellum," he said, pinching the paper. But his eyes grew wider as he revealed what lay below.

Under the beams of their flashlights, the ink on the next page glowed like molten jewels. Dark crimsons, golden yellows, and purples so rich they looked damp. The illustrations on the page were meticulous and dense, depicting stylized human figures tangled with knots and wrapped in intricate scrollwork. In the center of the first page, surrounded and supported by the intensity and force of the artwork, sat a crowned and bearded man on a gold throne.

It was clearly meant to represent Christ.

"It's an illuminated manuscript," Rachel said, awed by its beauty.

Wallace turned a few more pages. "It's a Bible."

His finger hovered over the crisp lines of Latin text that ran tightly over the pages. The calligraphy was ornate, with fanciful images folded into the capital letters. The pages' margins were equally decorated with a riotous mix of mythical animals, winged children, and tangles and tangles of knots.

"The iconography reminds me of the Book of Kells," Wallace said. "An illuminated treasure of Ireland that dates back to the eighth century. It was the result of decades of labor by sequestered monks. And that book only covered the four gospels of the New Testament."

Wallace's voice trembled. "I think this book is the entire Bible." He shook his head. "If so, it's priceless beyond imagination."

"Then why was it left here?" Seichan asked. Even she had drawn closer to see the book.

Wallace could only shake his head. But he carefully pulled back a few more leaves of the Bible, and an answer appeared.

The turn of a page revealed a gaping hole in the center of the book. The hole sliced straight through the pages and formed a cubby three inches square and one deep.

Wallace gasped at the destruction.

Gray leaned closer. The hole was plainly meant to hold something, to keep it hidden and preserved. Without turning, Gray held his hand out to Rachel. She reached to a pocket inside her coat.

They all knew what must once have been hidden there.

A moment later, Rachel placed the leather artifact in Gray's palm. The satchel looked to be made out of the same leather that bound the book. He held the object over the cubby. It fit perfectly into the hole.

"Father Giovanni stole the artifact, but left the Bible," Gray said, picturing the mummified finger inside the pouch. "Why?"

The one word held many questions.

Wallace added another. "Why didn't Marco tell anybody about this?"

"Maybe he did," Seichan said coldly. "To be hunted and murdered, he had to have told someone."

"She's right," Gray realized. "Maybe Marco didn't reveal all he knew-like the discovery of the Bible-but he told someone enough to get himself killed."

"Oh, God..." Wallace suddenly blurted.

Gray turned to him.

"About two years ago, Marco contacted me. He needed money to continue his travels. I told him that my sponsor, the Viatus Corporation, might be willing to finance any ancillary research connected to my dig. I gave him my contact's name. A head researcher there. Magnussen was her name."

Seichan stiffened beside Gray, but she remained silent.

"But I never heard back from Marco after that." Wallace looked sickened. "I assumed he never bothered. I forgot about it until now. Oh, God, I may have led him directly to his killers."

Gray ran the scenario through his head. It made sense. Viatus would have hired Marco, especially if he had proposed looking for a potential counteragent to whatever killed those mummies. How could they say no? But then somewhere along the way, Marco found something that frightened him enough to make a run for Rome, to meet with Vigor Verona, to expose all he knew. His employers must have grown wise to what he was planning and taken him out.

Wallace held a hand pressed over his mouth, still shocked. With his other hand, he pushed the loose pages back over the hole in the Bible, hiding the book's violation as if that might lessen his own guilt.

Rachel spoke as she accepted the satchel back from Gray. "Father Giovanni stole the artifact, but the bigger questions are who left it here to begin with and why?"

Her words drew them back to the heart of the mystery. Her life depended on discovering those answers.

"I may be able to answer the question of who left the Bible," Wallace said and took a deep breath to steady himself.

Gray turned to the man, surprised. "Who?"

"Possibly the owner of the Bible."

Wallace pointed back to the book, toward the inside surface of the leather cover. A page of vellum had been glued there.

Earlier, Gray had been too focused on the book's contents to note the one page shadowed by the cover. He examined it now. It was as densely illuminated as the rest of the work, but the content centered on a stylized name, possibly the owner of the priceless book.

Wallace read the name so dramatically illustrated. "Mael Maedoc Ua Morgair."

The name meant nothing to Gray. His lack of knowledge must have been plain on his face.

"You can't live in these parts without knowing that name," Wallace explained. "Especially in my profession."

"Who is it?"

"One of the most famous of Irish saints, second only to Saint Patrick. His given name was Mael Maedoc, but Latinized it's Malachy."

"Saint Malachy," Rachel said, clearly recognizing the name.

"Who was he?" Gray asked.

"He was born about the same year as the Doomsday Book was written." Wallace let the significance of that sink in before he continued. "He started out as the abbot of Bangor but grew to become archbishop. He spent much of his time on pilgrimages."

"So he most likely came here?"

Wallace nodded. "Malachy was an interesting man, kind of a reluctant archbishop. He preferred to travel, mingling with both the pagans and the pious of the region, spreading the word of the gospels. He moved easily between both worlds and eventually brokered a lasting peace between the Church and those who adhered to the old ways."

Gray recalled Wallace's earlier belief that the last of the pagans waged a final war against Christendom, possibly using the bioweapon acquired from the ancients. "Do you think a part of that brokered peace might have been knowledge of the plague and its cure, the proverbial key to the Doomsday Book?"

"His fingerprints are definitely here." Wallace gestured toward the book. "Then there's also the reason Malachy was canonized, why he was considered worthy of being made a saint."

"Why's that?"

"Ah, now there's the rub," Wallace said. "Malachy was known throughout his life for the miracle of healing. A long litany of miraculous cures is attributed to this saint."

"Just like the history of Bardsey Island," Gray said.

"But I also recall another story told about Malachy. From my own bonny Scotland. Malachy came traipsing through Annandale and asked the lord of the land there to spare the life of a pickpocket. The lord agreed, but ended up hanging the thief. Outraged, Malachy cursed him-and not only did the lord die, but so did everyone in his household."

Wallace glanced significantly at Gray.

"Healing and curses," Gray mumbled.

"It sounds like Malachy learned something from his new Druid friends, something the Church decided to keep secret out here."

Rachel interrupted. "But you skipped over what Malachy was best known for."

"Ah, you mean the prophecies," Wallace said with a roll of his eyes.

"What prophesies?"

Rachel answered, "The prophecies of the popes. It's said that on a pilgrimage to Rome, Malachy fell into a trance and had a vision of all the popes from his time to the end of the world. He dutifully wrote them all down."

"Bloody nonsense," Wallace countered. "The story goes that the Church supposedly found Malachy's book in their archives some four hundred years after the man died. Likely the book was a forgery."

"And some claim it was just a copy of Malachy's original text. Either way, the descriptions of each pope have over the centuries proved to be oddly accurate. Take the last two popes. Malachy describes John Paul II as De Labore Solis. Or translated, 'From the toil of the sun.' He was born during a solar eclipse. And then there's the current pope, Benedict XVI. Described as De Gloria Olivae. 'The Glory of the Olive.' And the symbol for the Benedictine order is the olive branch."

Wallace lifted a hand dismissively. "Just people reading too much into cryptic snippets of Latin."

Rachel turned to Gray for understanding. "But what's most disturbing of all is that the current pope is number one hundred and eleven on Malachy's list. The very next pope-Petrus Romanus-is the last pope, according to the prophecy. That pope will serve when the world comes to an end."

"Then we're all doomed," Seichan said, voicing as much skepticism as Wallace.

"Well, I certainly am," Rachel spat back, silencing her. "Unless we find that damned key."

Gray kept silent. He avoided weighing in on the matter. But Rachel was right about one thing. They needed to find that key. As he stood, he contemplated the significance of finding this dead saint's Bible sitting in a pagan sarcophagus. And more important-

"Do you think it was Saint Malachy's finger inside that Bible?" Gray asked.

"No," Wallace said firmly. "This sarcophagus is too old. Much too old. My guess is that it dates to the time of Stonehenge. Someone was buried here, but not Malachy."

"Then who?" Gray asked.

Wallace shrugged. "Like I said, possibly some Neolithic royalty. Perhaps that dark pagan queen. Nonetheless, I suspect that finger bone is all that's left of whoever was first buried here."

"Why do you think that?"

"And where's the rest of the body?" Rachel added.

"Moved. Probably by the Church. Maybe by Malachy himself. But they left the bone here as was traditional back then. It was a sin to move a body from its resting place unless you left a small piece behind."

"A relic of that person," Rachel said with a nod. "So they can continue to rest in peace. Uncle Vigor talked about that once. It was considered sacrilegious to do otherwise."

Gray stared into the sarcophagus. "Malachy used his own Bible to preserve the relic. He must have believed that whoever was buried here was worthy of that honor."

Gray also remembered Father Rye's description of Marco on the day he returned from the island all upset. The young priest had spent the night praying for forgiveness. Was it because he stole the relic, thereby desecrating a grave that had been sanctified by a saint of his own Church? And if so, what possessed him to do that? Why did he think it was so important?

Rachel raised another question of significance. "Why was the body even moved?"

Wallace offered one explanation. "Perhaps to keep safe whatever was hidden here. During Malachy's time, England and Ireland were under constant attack by wave after wave of Viking raiders. The island, with no fortifications, would have been especially vulnerable."

Gray nodded. "And if this crypt was where the key was kept, it must be somehow tied to the body interred here. So to preserve the knowledge, both the body and the key had to be moved to a safer location."

"But what the hell is this key?" Seichan asked. "What are we even looking for?"

Gray looked toward the only other clue left to them by Father Giovanni. He moved over to the wall and studied the charcoal notations next to the cross. He laid a hand on the wall. What had Marco been trying to figure out?

The others gathered behind him.

He looked up at the Celtic cross. Only now did he realize something. "The cross," he said, running his fingers down it. "It's made out of the same stone as the sarcophagus. It even feels scoured like the crypt."

Wallace stepped closer. "You're right."

Gray turned to him. "This wasn't put here by Malachy or some other pious Christian to mark the grave."

"It was already here."

Gray looked at the cross with new eyes, not seeing it as a Christian symbol but a pagan one. Did it offer some clue to what the key actually was? From the notations on the wall, Father Giovanni had been trying to figure something out.

Needing to know more, Gray pointed his light at the bottom of the cross. "The set of three spirals near the base of the cross. Is there any special significance to them?"

Wallace moved over to join Gray and Rachel. "It's called a tri-spiral. But it's actually not three spirals. Only one. See how the three of them join and blend to form one sinuous pattern. This same triple pattern can be found marked on ancient standing stones across Europe. And like many pagan symbols, the Church appropriated this one, too. To the Celtic people, it represented eternal life. But to the Church, it was the perfect representation for the Holy Trinity. The Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. All entwined together. The three who are one."

Gray moved his gaze up to the single spiral that sat in the middle of the cross, like the hub of a wheel.

He remembered Painter's original briefing about the symbol. How the pagan cross and spiral were often found together, one overlapping the other. The cross was a symbol for Earth. And the spiral marked the soul's journey, rising from this world to the next, like a curl of smoke.

Gray's attention shifted to Father Giovanni's markings drawn on the wall. He sensed some meaning behind the notations and lines. He could almost grasp it, but it remained tantalizingly out of reach.

Stepping closer, Gray put down his flashlight and reached to the circular section on the cross. He ran his fingertips across the scored markings.

Like spokes on a wheel.

As the thought popped into his head, he was still staring at the spiral in the center of the cross. He had compared it earlier to a wheel hub. It even looked like it was turning.

Then suddenly he knew.

Maybe he had sensed it from the beginning, but he couldn't get past the Christian symbolism. Now, considering the cross anew and pushing aside preconceptions, he recognized what was nagging at him.

"It is a wheel," he realized.

Reaching more firmly, he grasped the stone circle and turned it counter-clockwise, in the direction of the curl of the spiral.

It moved!

As he turned the wheel, his eyes shifted to the calculations drawn on the wall. The cross hid a clue about the key, but to unlock it you had to know the proper code. The wheel must act like a combination lock, protecting some hidden vault where the key was once stored.

From all the calculations on the wall, Marco had been working on that proper sequence, trying to figure out the numbers to the combination.

Unfortunately, Gray realized something too late.

You only got one guess at the combination.

And he got it wrong.

A loud boom shook the ground under his feet. The floor suddenly dropped from under him. He grabbed for the cross and hooked his fingers onto the crossbar. Looking over a shoulder as he hung, he watched the back half of the chamber floor rise up. The entire floor was tilting-tipping away from the only exit.

The others screamed and scrambled to brace themselves.

The stone lid slid off the sarcophagus, skittered across the tilted floor, and toppled into the gaping hole under Gray's feet. His flashlight had already rolled into the pit. Its shine revealed a bottom covered in vicious bronze spikes, all pointed up.

The stone lid crashed and shattered against them.

Behind Gray, the floor continued to tip, going vertical, trying to dump everyone below.

Wallace and Rachel had managed to get behind the sarcophagus and brace themselves. The coffin remained in place, anchored to the floor. Seichan couldn't reach the refuge in time. She went sliding toward the pit.

Rachel lunged out with an arm and caught the back of her jacket as she slid past. She pulled Seichan close enough so the woman could grab the edge of the sarcophagus.

Rachel continued to hold her. At the precarious moment, each woman depended on the other for her life.

As the floor tilted to full vertical, Seichan hung like Gray.

But Gray had no one holding him.

His fingers slipped, and he plummeted toward the spikes.

Chapter 22

October 13, 1:13 P.M.

Svalbard, Norway

The warhead detonated on schedule.

Even hidden behind two steel doors and walls of bedrock, Painter felt the blast as if a giant had his hands over his ears, trying to crush his skull. And yet he still heard the other two seed banks' air locks blow. From the concussive sound of it, the same giant had stamped his foot and crushed the other chambers flat.

Crouched beside their air lock, Painter heard the outer door give way and slam into the inner one with a resounding clang. But the last door held. The overpressure in the air lock had been enough to hold off the sudden blast wave.

Painter touched the steel door with relief. Its surface was warm, heated by the thermobaric's secondary flash fire.

The lights had also been snuffed out by the blast. But the group had prepared for that. Flashlights had been passed out, and they flickered on across the chamber like candles in the dark.

"We made it," Senator Gorman said at his side.

His voice sounded tinny to Painter's strained ears. The others began picking themselves up off the floor. Cries of relief, even a few nervous laughs, spread through the assembled guests and workers.

Painter hated to be the bearer of the bad news, but they had no time for false hope.

He stood up and lifted his arm. "Quiet!" he called out and gained everyone's attention. "We're not out of here yet! We still don't know if the explosion was enough to break through the wall of ice trapping us down here. If we're still stuck, rescue could take days."

Painter motioned to the vault's maintenance engineer for confirmation. He lived up here. He knew the terrain and the archipelago's resources.

"It could take well over a week," he said. "And that's if the road is still open."

That was doubtful, considering the missile barrage Painter had heard. But he kept that to himself. The news was bad enough already. And he had more to deliver.

Painter pointed to the door. "The firestorm will have burned away most of the available oxygen and turned the air toxic out there. Even if the exit is open, these lower levels will still be choked with bad air. We're in the only safe pocket down here. But it will only last for a couple of days, maybe three."

The engineer looked like he was going to shorten that projection, but Painter stemmed that with a hand on his arm. Painter also avoided telling the group the real reason for his haste.

Whoever attacked could come back.

The crowd had gone completely quiet as the sobering news sank in.

Karlsen finally spoke from the edge of the crowd. These were mostly his guests. "So what do we do?"

"Someone has to go out there. To check the door. If it's open, they're going to have to make a long run through a toxic soup. Someone needs to get out and bring back help. The rest will stay here where it's safe for the moment."

"Who's going to go out there?" Senator Gorman asked.

Painter lifted his hand. "I am."

Karlsen stepped forward. "Not alone you're not. I'll go with you. You may need an extra pair of hands."

He was right. Painter didn't know what he might encounter out there. There could be a partial cave-in, a tangle of damaged equipment. It might take a couple of people to move an obstacle. But he eyed Karlsen with skepticism. He was not a young man.

Karlsen read the doubt in his face. "I ran a half marathon two months ago. I jog daily. I won't hold you back."

The senator joined him. "Then I'm going, too."

Clearly Gorman was not letting the murderer of his son out of his sight. And truth be told, Painter didn't want to either. He had a slew of questions for the man, questions that might prove vital to avoiding an ecological disaster.

Still, he preferred both men to stay here.

But Karlsen raised a point that Painter couldn't counter. He gestured toward the door. "It's not up for debate. Whether you like it or not, you can't stop me from following you. I'm going."

Gorman stood shoulder to shoulder with the man on this matter. "We're both going."

Painter didn't have time to argue. He had no authority to have Karlsen handcuffed to one of the racks. In fact, Karlsen had more supporters here than Painter did.

"Then let's go." Painter took one of the flashlights. He used a canteen to wet some scarves and wrap their lower faces, covering mouths and noses. "Try to hold your breath as much as possible."

They nodded.

The engineer had also secured sets of safety goggles to protect their eyes from the sting of the heated, smoky air.

They were as prepared as they could be.

Once ready, Painter stood by the door. He left the maintenance engineer in charge. If they failed, the man had the knowledge to keep the others safe for as long as possible.

"When I open the door, the pressure is now higher in here than out there. It will suck away some of the oxygen. So close this as soon as we leave and don't open it unless we come knocking. If the way is blocked, we'll be right back. If not, pray for the best."

"I've not stopped praying since I saw that bomb," the engineer said with a weak grin.

Painter clapped him on the shoulder and turned to Gorman and Karlsen. "Ready?" he asked.

He got two nods.

Painter turned to the engineer. "Open it." Then to his two companions. "Take a deep breath."

The door cracked open with a disturbing hissing of escaping air and a wash of incredible heat. Painter dashed through it and into the dark tunnel. It was like diving into a sauna. But this steam burned the skin with more than just heat. Painter felt the chemical sting. The air out here was worse than he had imagined.

He heard the other men pounding behind him.

Once Painter rounded out of the seed bank passageway and into the main tunnel, he flicked off his flashlight. He held his breath both literally and figuratively.

Had the entrance been blown open?

He stared ahead into the pitch-black tunnel. He saw no evidence of any light shining back. The tunnel was a straight run. If the way was open, even a little light should stand out like a beacon.

His feet began to slow.

It hadn't worked. They were still trapped in this poisonous well.

But after a few more blind steps, his eyes adjusted more fully to the darkness as the flashlight's dazzle faded. It wasn't much, but far up the tunnel a meager glow shone back through the smoky darkness.

He let slip a small sigh of relief, allowing precious air to escape his lungs.

As hope ignited inside him, he flicked on his light and ran faster. He didn't know if Gorman or Karlsen had seen the promising glow, but they knew the plan. If there hadn't been any sign of light, they were supposed to head back. Since Painter continued, they knew what that meant.

They all sped faster, running through the ruined catering area. Tables were overturned and slammed into the tunnel's end. Anything plastic had melted. The line of ice sculptures had been vaporized. Anything combustible had been set on fire, but the consumption of oxygen by the thermobaric charge had just as quickly smothered the fires.

Residual smoke still hung dead in the air, but the farther they ran, the less dense it grew. A fine black powder covered everything, a by-product of the flash of fluorinated aluminum.

They ran onward.

Painter was forced to take his first breath. He pressed the damp scarf to his nose and sucked in a gulp of air. It stank of burned rubber and stung like acid. He didn't know how much oxygen was still in the air, but he kept running. The higher he got, the cleaner the air would be-especially with the ice plug broken away.

He reached about the halfway point, only another seventy-five yards to go. He could now see a faint glow even with his flashlight on. It drew him forward. But the more he was forced to breathe, the more the tunnel began to waver, shimmering a bit before his watering eyes. His lungs burned. His skin itched all over.

Still he did not slow.

He glanced behind him and saw the other two men falling behind. Senator Gorman looked the worst, weaving on his feet. Karlsen had a grip on his elbow and kept him steady, propelling the senator along.

Painter slowed to help. He needed both men alive.

But Karlsen waved an arm angrily at him, his command clear.

Keep going.

Painter realized he was right. He had to get out of this toxic soup, clear his head. If necessary, he could come back for them. With no other choice, he sped toward the glow and the promise of fresh air.

Finally the blast door appeared, bathed in a bluish glow. A few brighter spots stung Painter's eyes. But as he ran forward, his heart sank.

It can't be...

The door was still blocked.

The glow was only daylight diffusing through the ice. The blast had failed to free them. Painter ran toward the exit anyway. There was nowhere else to go. As he drew closer, he realized that some of the brighter spots in the wall were chinks in the blockage.

Hope surged again and was enough to propel him to the doorway. He crossed to one of those chinks, pressed his face against it, and sucked in air. If nothing else, it was deliciously cool. He took several breaths. His head immediately began clearing, the fogginess shredding away.

He turned and saw Karlsen and Gorman about fifteen yards away. Karlsen was now half-carrying the senator. Painter shoved off the wall of ice and hurried back. He supported Gorman's other side.

Together, they hobbled the rest of the way to the door. Painter got both men breathing through cracks in the wall, then found a third spot higher up. As he sucked air, he realized that the ice wall wasn't covered in black soot. This was new ice. The blast must have unplugged the entrance-but a secondary avalanche had tumbled back over it, resealing them in.

But the ice wouldn't be as thick.

Painter put an eye to the crack. He could see out.

Near the top of the door, the blockage was less than two feet thick, made up of a jumble of blocks. They were large, but with time, they might be able to dig themselves out.

Still, Painter sensed they didn't have much time. No telling when another avalanche might surge down from above and seal them in tighter.

As if hearing this thought, Painter heard a rumble.

He felt the ice shiver under his cheek.

Oh, no...

1:20 P.M.

From across the valley, Monk had watched the explosion. The noise was like a thunderclap inside his head. Startled, deafened, he was knocked on his butt in the snow.

Creed and the two Norwegians fared no better.

A massive eruption of ice and flames had burst out of the buried seed vault. An oily blackness roiled up into the sky.

As if offended, the storm clouds suddenly opened. Snow fell thickly. One second it wasn't snowing, the next, heavy windblown flakes filled the air. It worsened to a whiteout condition in a matter of half a minute. But before the curtain dropped, Monk saw that the explosion had exposed the concrete bunker-at least for a few seconds. A moment later, a second avalanche had slid and tumbled over the entrance.

Was anyone still alive in there?

A pair of gunshots echoed, coming from the lower mountain. Monk could no longer see the trundling force of mercenaries, but they were still coming, still cleaning house.

If anyone had survived that underground blast, they wouldn't be alive for long.

Monk had only one choice.

It took Creed's help, but he finally convinced the Norwegians.

1:21 P.M.

As the rumble grew and the ice shook, Painter prayed the avalanche wouldn't be a large one. But the rumbling grew in volume.

Then, out of the blanket of snow and wind, a Sno-Cat shot into view, rising up from below. It did not slow and sped straight at them.

"Get back!" Painter yelled.

He shoved Gorman away from the doorway, then grabbed Karlsen by the hood of his parka and flung them both bodily away from the wall of ice.

And not a second too soon.

The heavy vehicle struck the blocked doorway. Its front treads rode up the ice wall. The bumper cracked into the top half of the doorway. Ice blocks shattered into the tunnel and slid away.

The Sno-Cat backed up, likely readying itself for a second run.

Painter dashed forward. The bumper had broken a hole large enough for Painter to slide his body through. Diving into the jagged gap, he clawed and elbowed his way through the door.

The Sno-Cat suddenly halted its retreat.

The passenger door popped open. A familiar figure leaned out.

"Director Crowe?" Monk said, his face raw with relief.

"Monk...you are a sight for sore eyes." And Painter's eyes were sore-bloodshot and inflamed.

"I get that a lot," Monk said. "But we should get moving."

Painter turned. Karlsen clambered out of the hole, followed by the senator. "There are more people locked up down below."

"And that's where they should stay." Monk hopped out, reached back inside, and came out with an armload of rifles. "Can you shoot?" he asked the other two men.

Both Gorman and Karlsen nodded.

"Good, because we need as much firepower as we can muster."

"Why?" Painter asked.

Before Monk could answer, the distant grumble of a heavy engine echoed out of the storm.

"We've got company coming."

Painter joined Monk over at the Sno-Cat and took a rifle. He noted that the vehicle held only one man, a Norwegian soldier. He searched around.

"Where's Creed?" Painter asked.

"Left with this soldier's buddy on our snowmobiles. They've gone for help."

Painter hoped they made it back in time with the cavalry. He assessed the group left to defend the fort.

One vehicle and four men.

The Alamo had better odds...and look how that turned out.

Chapter 23

October 13, 1:32 P.M.

Bardsey Island, Wales

Rachel almost dropped Seichan when she saw Gray fall from his perch. He slid down the face of the cross and caught himself on the tri-spiral bas-relief that decorated the lower leg of the cross.

He scrambled for a moment, then laced his fingers over the top of the symbol sticking out. Would it hold his weight or break away?

The same worry must have crossed his mind. He kept his body from moving too much. His boots hung over a twenty-foot drop into a pit lined by spikes.

But Gray wasn't the only one threatened.

Rachel slid across the upended side of the sarcophagus. "Hold my legs!" she shouted back to Wallace.

The professor shared her perch on the stone coffin. He clung as precariously as she did. He grabbed her ankles and helped stabilize her.

It gave Rachel some slight reassurance but not much.

She hung over the side of the sarcophagus. She had a grip on Seichan's jacket. The woman who poisoned her clung with only her fingertips to the edge of the coffin.

Neither of them could hold out much longer.

A small quake shuddered through the chamber. The apparatus was ancient. Triggering it must have upset whatever fragile balance had been established over the centuries. She pictured the ruins of the tower above. It might all come down.

Another shake rattled through the tilted floor. From inside the sarcophagus, Malachy's Bible tumbled out. It fell into the pit and was speared through the middle, impaled on one of the spikes.

Wallace groaned at the loss, but they had more immediate concerns.

Bobbled by the quaking, Seichan lost her grip. She fell without making a sound, as if she expected it, deserved it. One of Rachel's hands lost its grip, but her other fist remained twisted in Seichan's coat.

She stopped the woman's plunge with a wrench of her shoulder. But the weight dragged her over the edge of the sarcophagus. Only Wallace's grip on her ankles stopped them both from a deadly plunge.

Rachel's upper body hung upside down, her hips and legs remaining atop the coffin, pinned by Wallace. It was hard to breathe. Seichan dangled below, hanging from her coat. Her only sign of fear was how tightly she clutched that coat to her neck with both hands.

Rachel wanted to let her go, but the woman was her only lifeline.

The floor shook again. A piece of the cavern roof broke away. A large slab dropped, and shattered against the spikes.

She closed her eyes and prayed for some way out.

Her angelic answer came from the most unlikely of sources.

"What the fuck!"

The shout came from the other side of the tilted floor, where the tunnel led up to Lord Newborough's crypt.

It was Kowalski. He must have come down either out of impatience or because he had heard the booby trap being sprung.

"Help!" Rachel yelled, but with her chest stretched and her belly squeezed, it came out as a squeak.

"Hello!" Kowalski called. Plainly he hadn't heard her.

Gray bellowed as he hung. "Kowalski!"

"Pierce? Where are you? All I see is a pit and a blank wall. How did you all get across?"

From Kowalski's vantage point in the tunnel, all he must see was the underside of the fake floor-and the pit.

Gray yelled again. "Go back and pull the bar!"

"Pull my what?" He sounded offended.

"The lever! Up the tunnel!"

"Oh, okay! Hang on!"

Rachel stared down at Seichan, then over to Gray. Hang on. That's all they could do.

"Hurry!" Gray called out. He had begun to slip again.

Kowalski's voice came back fainter. "Quit nagging me!"

Rachel clung as tightly as she could. She closed her eyes and pictured the bar sticking out of the floor. She had spotted it earlier. It made sense that there would be a reset button for this trap. While the mechanism might kill any thieves who stumbled down here, the engineers of the trap would have needed a way to reset it. Otherwise, they'd be cut off from the key, too. Some sort of reset had to lie outside the chamber.

But was it the lever?

She prayed Gray's intuition was right.

She had her answer a moment later.

The entire floor suddenly vibrated. A great grinding of gears shook through the room. The floor began to tilt again-but the wrong way. It started to rotate upside down. Rachel dared not even scream as her body began to slip across the stone. They were going to flip over.

Then something caught. The floor stopped with a stomach-jarring jolt. With a harsher grinding of gears, the floor slowly reversed itself. It swung back in the proper direction.

Rachel clung hard, her lips moving as she said the Lord's Prayer.

She watched the floor's edge rise under Gray's toes and push him back up. She rolled off the side of the sarcophagus and onto the leveling floor. They all lay flat, breathing hard. Even Gray slumped to his rear beside the cross.

Kowalski came back with a flashlight. "If you're done playing down here..."

Rachel glared in his direction.

"I came to tell you that the storm's getting fierce. Lyle says we better move it if we want to get off this godforsaken island."

Before anyone could move or respond, another section of the roof crashed down, striking the floor like a bomb. Water and a flow of bricks came next. The tower was coming down on top of them.

"Out!" Gray yelled.

They all shot to their feet and ran for the exit. A resounding snap jolted the entire floor. It began to wobble, teeter-tottering as something broke in the ancient mechanism.

Off balance, Rachel tumbled to the side, but Gray caught her around the waist and rushed with her toward the tunnel. They all flew into it as more of the cavern imploded.

A last glance showed the floor tilted askew as a waterfall of bricks and rain flooded into the room. Then she was too far up the tunnel to see any more. A moment later, an earthshaking crash chased them. A flume of rock dust rolled up the tunnel and over them.

Coughing, they reached the exit and climbed up, one after the other, back into the storm. Up top, a stunned Lyle offered them umbrellas.

Rachel took one, but she kept her face turned up toward the sky. She let rainwater wash over her.

We made it, Rachel thought.

1:42 P.M.

Gray stared over at the wreckage of the abbey tower. It was now only a tumbled pile of rubble sunk halfway into the ground. Water had already begun to pool around it.

The cavern was surely gone.

A roar rose behind him as Lyle started the tractor. The storm wailed-the winds had picked up while they'd been down there. Rain pelted out of the sky, whipping horizontal at times as the winds swept off the Irish Sea and across the island. Even the lightning had grown more subdued, as if cowed by the growing intensity of the storm.

They loaded up into the trailer for the ride back over the hill to the harbor. Lyle hunched in his seat and pushed the tractor into gear. The trailer lurched as it began to move.

They all crouched low, trying to keep out of the rain and the wind.

Wallace gazed back at the fallen ruins of Saint Mary's Abbey. "First rule of archaeology," he said, then glanced sidelong at Gray. "Don't touch anything."

Gray did not blame the professor for scolding him. He had acted without properly considering the dangers. He had been so shocked to discover that the cross predated Christianity, that the wheel component actually turned. He leaped before looking. Unlike Father Giovanni. Judging by all the priest's calculations, he had gone after the puzzle in a systematic and studied way.

But then again, the priest had been trained as an archaeologist. And Father Giovanni didn't have a woman's life hanging in the balance.

His group had only another two days to solve this mystery. Gray wouldn't apologize for pushing their investigation hard, for taking chances, for eschewing caution to get results.

Still, as he pictured the painstaking notations and calculations done by Father Giovanni, he knew there was something he was still missing. The more he tried to pin it down, the more it slipped away.

Wallace shook his head. "Just think what we might have learned if we'd had more time with that cross..."

Gray heard the accusation behind his words. The man's usual joviality had been worn away by exhaustion, terror, and not a small amount of disappointment. With one mistake, they'd destroyed a priceless illuminated treasure and lost access to whatever the cross had kept hidden.

"What if the key is still down there?" Wallace asked pointedly.

Gray had had enough. "You don't believe that. And neither do I." The words came out more harshly than he intended, but he was tired, too.

"How can you be so sure?" Wallace asked.

"Because Father Giovanni left. He continued his search. I think he solved the riddle of the cross, found an empty vault that once held the key, then moved on, taking the one object he needed to continue his search."

"The relic from the grave," Rachel said.

Gray stared out into the storm. "The key is still out there. I don't think the cross offered Father Giovanni that much help. So he moved on, just as we must."

"But where?" Wallace asked. "Where do we even begin to look? We're right back where we started."

"No, we're not," Gray said.

"How can you say that?"

He ignored the professor's question and turned to Rachel. "How did you know so much about Saint Malachy?"

She shifted on the floorboards, clearly caught by surprise. "It was Uncle Vigor. The prophecies intrigued him. He could talk for hours about Saint Malachy."

Gray had suspected as much. Monsignor Verona had always been passionate about the mysteries of the early Church, seeking truths behind miracles. Such a figure as Malachy would have captured both his attention and his imagination.

"That's why Father Giovanni sought out your uncle," Gray said. "He knew the key to solving this mystery lay in the life of that saint. So Giovanni went to the best source he knew."

"Vigor Verona." Wallace sat straighter, ignoring the wind and rain.

"Maybe Marco knew about the plot by Viatus, or maybe he just had an inkling. But I suspect that the further he delved into this matter of curses and miracles, the more he knew he was in over his head. That he needed the expertise and protection of the Church behind him."

Seichan added her own bleak viewpoint from the back of the trailer. "But he sought them out too late. Someone knew of his plan."

Gray nodded. "If we're going to discover where the Doomsday key was hidden, we're going to need an expert on Saint Malachy."

"But Verona is still in a coma," Wallace said.

"It doesn't matter. We have someone who knows just as much." He turned to Rachel.

"Me?"

"You're going to have to help us from here."

"How?"

"Because I know where the key is hidden."

Wallace looked hard at him. "What?...Where?"

"Malachy's Bible was left in that sarcophagus for a reason. More than just to sanctify a relic. It was left behind as a symbol, a bread crumb to lead to the key's new resting place. Prior to the coming of the Romans, the key and the grave of this ancient royal were always kept together. They were bound together. And in the sarcophagus, we discovered Malachy's Bible binding a relic of this ancient person, binding it to him."

"So what are you saying?" Wallace pressed him.

"I think Saint Malachy has taken the place of this ancient. That he's become the proverbial keeper of the key."

Wallace's eyes grew wide. "If you're right, then the key..."

"It's in Saint Malachy's tomb."

Kowalski groaned and picked at a fingernail with a piece of straw. "Of course it is. But I'm telling you flat out, I'm not going in there."

Before they could discuss it further, the trailer jerked to a stop. Gray was surprised to see that they'd already reached the harbor.

Lyle hopped down and waved them out. "You can hole up in the old harbor house. Get yourselves out of the rain, right enough. I'll fetch my da."

As Gray hurried down the path toward the stone house, he stared out to sea. The waters rolled with frothing whitecaps. Closer at hand, the ferry rocked and teetered in its slip, even sheltered within the harbor's breakwater. It was going to be a hellish ride back over to the mainland.

But for now, the windows of the harbor house glowed and flickered with the promise of a crackling fire. They all piled through the door, shutting out the storm behind them. The room was paneled in raw pine, with heavy exposed beams. The floor creaked underfoot. The place smelled of wood smoke and pipe tobacco. Candles lit a few tables. But it was the fire that drew them all deeper inside. They gladly shed their coats over a few chairs.

Gray stood with his back to the fire, appreciating the heat from his heels to the top of his head. The warmth and the cheery dance of flames went a long way to beat back the hopelessness that had begun to settle over them.

But now they had a course of action.

A place to look next.

The door slammed open as the wind ripped the knob from Owen Bryce's fingers. He caught it again and forced it closed. Drenched, he stomped and shook off the worst of the rainwater.

"It's parky weather out, that's for sure," the boatman said with a crooked grin at his understatement. "And I'm afraid I have some good news and some bad."

Such a preamble never boded well.

Gray stepped away from the fire.

"The bad news is that we won't be able to make the crossing today. The storm has blown the seas into a treacherous state. If'n you didn't know, the Welsh name for the island is Ynys Enlli, which means 'island of bad currents.' And that's on a sunny day."

"So what's the good news?" Kowalski asked.

"I've checked and I can get you rooms here for the night at half off. Good for the entire week."

Gray felt his stomach sink. "How soon do you expect we can make it off the island?"

He shrugged. "Hard to say. Electricity and phones are down all over the island. We have to get the all-clear from the harbormaster in Aberdaron before we can even think of throwing off our ties here."

"Your best estimate?"

"We had some tourists here last year that got stranded for seventeen days due to storms."

Gray waited for the answer to his question. He looked sternly at the man.

Owen finally relented, running a hand over the top of his head. "I'm sure we can get you back to Aberdaron in two days. Three days tops."

Off to the side, Rachel sank into one of the chairs.

She didn't have that many days.

Chapter 24

October 13, 1:35 P.M.

Svalbard, Norway

Monk lay flat across the roof of the Sno-Cat as it trundled through the snowstorm. Painter shared his perch. They were both tethered to the roof rack like luggage. The harder gusts of wind continually fought to rip them from the roof. Snow frosted them like icing on a cake.

Each man had an assault rifle snugged to his shoulder, and the Norwegian soldier had supplied them both with one additional piece of gear, essential for cold-weather fighting.

Monk adjusted the infrared goggles on his face. They darkened the view ahead. Not that it mattered-the blizzard's whiteout conditions had lowered visibility to mere yards. But the scopes built into the eyepieces captured any ambient heat signatures and brought them into focus. Below their perch, the hot engine of their Sno-Cat glowed a soft orange.

Out in the storm, their targets came into view. Seven or eight snowmobiles crisscrossed up from the lower mountain slopes, glowing a soft amber through the scopes. The vehicles were just now cresting into the upper valley where Monk had spent much of his time spying on the Svalbard seed vault.

It was here that Monk and the others would make their stand, using every resource available to them.

Monk patted a hand on the rocket-propelled grenade launcher next to him. Before setting out, they had scoured the avalanche's path for additional weapons and found the launcher. Along with a wooden box of ammunition.

Below, the senator and the CEO shared the cab with the Norwegian soldier, manning rifles. One pointed out the passenger side, the other out the rear.

They were armed to the teeth, but their enemy outnumbered them at least ten to one.

As the advance team of the assault party rode into the valley on snowmobiles, the Norwegian driver lunged their vehicle to the side. He was doing his best to keep a snowbank between the Cat and the smaller, faster snow machines.

Through the goggles, Monk watched a pair of snowmobiles, double mounted by mercenary soldiers, skim past far to the right. The enemy failed to spot the Cat half-hidden behind the snowbank, suggesting that the enemy either didn't have infrared or were too focused on the seed vault ahead.

Monk and Painter let them pass without firing.

The smaller vehicles were not their primary target.

More snowmobiles shot past with a whining rip of their engines, deafening the riders to the low rumble of the Sno-Cat. Ahead, a massive vehicle loomed into view. Its heat signature was nearly blinding. It rose up out of the lower slopes and dropped heavily into the upper valley.

It was a Hagglund troop carrier.

The main body of the assault force remained inside that vehicle. It had to be taken out. Their Sno-Cat was no match for the swifter snowmobiles, but against this behemoth, the Sno-Cat would be the nimbler one. If they could take out the Hagglund, it would demoralize the enemy. Perhaps enough to encourage them to give up the assault and turn back.

Either way, Monk and the others couldn't let the assault force reach the seed vault. According to Painter, there were over forty people still alive in there.

As the Hagglund lumbered along the valley floor, Painter exchanged his rifle for the grenade launcher. They would have only one chance. Once they fired, they would draw the full wrath of the force toward them.

Monk slapped his palm twice on the roof of the Sno-Cat.

Obeying the signal, the driver slowed to a stop.

Painter swung the weapon up and aimed. Monk pulled his goggles off. The fiery flash of the launcher might blind him. Without the goggles, he could see nothing. The blizzard swirled and spun, erasing the world. It was like being trapped in a snow globe that someone had tossed into a paint shaker.

No wonder the enemy hadn't spotted them.

"Fire in the hole," Painter said and pulled the trigger.

The launcher belched out smoke and flames, and the grenade rocketed through the curtain of snow.

Monk shoved his goggles back in place. He got them seated in time to see the hot passage of the grenade slam into the treads of the Hagglund. A bloom of fiery orange marked the impact. Hit broadside, the troop carrier tipped up on one tread.

Monk willed it to topple over.

It didn't. It crashed back down on its treads. The Hagglund tried to move, but with one set of tracks ruined, it foundered in the snow, turning in place. Doors popped open, and smaller heat signatures abandoned the vehicle, diving flat against the snow. The soldiers knew they were under attack, sitting ducks in the Hagglund.

"Firing!" Painter yelled.

Monk covered his eyes, heard the launcher roar, then looked up again. Painter's aim was perfect. The rocket crashed through the front windshield of the vehicle and exploded inside. Windows blew out in a fiery ruin. Bodies tumbled through the air, blazing brightly through the goggles.

Painter dropped flat.

Bullets whined past overhead.

Firing the grenade launcher had given away their position.

With their cover blown, Monk slapped the roof, and the Sno-Cat kicked into gear. The driver quickly gained speed going downhill, then tore the vehicle to the right. The Sno-Cat lifted up off one tread.

Monk held tight. Painter knocked into him.

The Cat jumped the snowbank and went airborne for a stomach-rising moment, then slammed back down. Monk crashed to the roof and took a glancing blow to his ribs against a roof rail.

But he didn't complain.

They had only a short window of time to take advantage of the confusion. During the short run down the slope, they had gotten below the Hagglund's position. They had to attack before the assault force was entrenched.

Monk spotted heat signatures against the cold snow. He raised his rifle to his cheek and began firing. Painter did the same. They took out a few men, sending them sprawling. But aiming was a challenge as the Sno-Cat bounced and rattled over the ice and snow.

Some soldiers ran for cover. Others fled upslope.

A barrage of return fire blasted from behind the Hagglund. Ping s rang out as rounds spattered against the metal grille of the Sno-Cat. Monk heard the telltale crunch of the windshield being struck.

The driver didn't slow but turned, doing his best to keep the bulk of the Hagglund between them and the shooters. Other soldiers fired at them, hidden behind chunks of ice or boulders.

Still, the Cat was a difficult target in the snowstorm, and the Norwegian did his best to keep moving, to slalom one way then the other.

As they climbed the slope, a new noise intruded: the angry whine of snowmobiles. The advance team had swung back around and was headed to the aid of the others.

While the Sno-Cat might be a shark circling the Hagglund, the smaller snow machines were leaner, swifter predators.

Their position was about to be overrun.

1:41 P.M.

Through his goggles, Painter watched the swarm of ten snowmobiles dive toward the Hagglund. The small vehicles' heat signatures were bright spots against the cold snow. He and his team had no choice but to take the fight to the others.

The Sno-Cat sped upslope to meet the charge head-on.

As they neared the blasted behemoth, the enemy began to fire more furiously at them. With the approach of the snowmobiles and the promise of additional firepower, the soldiers on the ground grew more confident and secured their positions.

A fiery trail burned across Painter's shoulders.

He didn't flinch, nor did he stop firing.

Neither did anyone else.

As the Cat climbed to face the challenge, rifles fired in a continual blaze from the trundling vehicle. They had to break the back of this assault. Painter had hoped taking out the Hagglund would send the others running, but these were seasoned fighters. They didn't scare that easily.

It would have to become a fiery brawl, pitting speed, wit, and skill.

Or so he thought.

A strange new noise intruded.

A shrill whistling pierced the chatter of gunfire.

Monk slapped the roof of the Cat three times. The driver slammed to a stop. Unprepared, Painter went flying forward off the roof. His body slammed into the windshield, but the tether kept him from tumbling away.

Monk had kept his perch. He reached with a knife and cut Painter's tether, then did the same to his own.

"Get inside!" Monk yelled and pointed below.

Painter trusted the firmness in Monk's voice. As he hopped down, both doors popped open. Monk dove for the passenger side. The driver leaned out, grabbed Painter's sleeve, and dragged him in. The small Cat was only a two-man vehicle, but there was a storage compartment in back. Still, it was a tight fit.

Gunfire continued, flaring brightly through the snow. A few stray shots clipped their vehicle. But with all return fire stopped and the engine throttled down, their exact position grew more obscured in the storm.

"What's happening?" Painter asked.

Monk continued to stare intently forward. "I told you Creed went to fetch help. The Norwegian army isn't the only force defending that vault."

"What're you-?"

Then Painter saw them. Massive heat signatures bloomed out of the snow. Easily a dozen. They bounded at incredible speeds, growing larger as Painter watched. Now he understood.

Polar bears.

The sharp whistling continued, echoing down from the higher valley.

Bear whistles.

The piercing noise must be driving them on down.

"The driver's buddy grew up here," Monk said in a rush. "Knew the haunts of the bears. Over three thousand are on the island alone. He was confident he could flush out a pack, get them angry and get them moving. Sorry I didn't say anything earlier. Thought he was insane."

Painter agreed. It was insane-but it had also worked.

Polar bears hunted seals. They could sprint at thirty miles per hour, with bursts of speed even faster. And this angry pack was going downhill.

Through the goggles, Painter watched the bears overtake the snowmobiles. Massive shapes swamped the slower vehicles, unleashing their savage fury against any moving targets in their rampaging path. Painter watched one snow machine go down, then another, toppling and crashing to the side, buried under a mountain of angry muscle.

Screams broke through the slowing gunfire-accompanied by fierce roars that stood Painter's hair on end.

The remaining snowmobiles reached the Hagglund, but they didn't slow. They raced straight past, the riders hunched low. The bears followed, sweeping through the entrenched soldiers on the ground. Some fired at the beasts, but the bears were mere shadows in the snowstorm.

The shots only succeeded in drawing their fury.

Screams and roars rose in volume.

One soldier fled on foot toward the Cat, as if their vehicle might offer him some refuge. He never made it. Out of the storm, a thick paw snagged a leg. The bear continued to run. The limb was ripped from the soldier's body. He flipped high in the air, spraying blood.

Another bear bowled past the Cat, knocking its shoulder into the side as if warning them, an act of intimidation.

It worked.

Painter didn't breathe.

The pack stormed through the valley, scattering men, leaving bloody bodies behind. Then, as quickly as they came, the pack vanished back into the storm like ghosts.

Painter stared. Nothing moved out there now.

Anyone who could flee had done so, striking off in a hundred different directions. Painter had hoped to break the back of the assault force by taking out the Hagglund. It hadn't worked. But even the most seasoned veteran had to be shaken to the core when faced by such a raw display of nature's brutal force.

A new whining grew in volume, coming from upslope.

A pair of snowmobiles blipped into existence in his goggles.

Moments later, they appeared out of the storm. Creed lifted an arm in greeting. The Norwegian driver patted Painter on the shoulder, his gesture clear.

It was over.

2:12 P.M.

Krista climbed through the snow.

She clutched her hood closed against the freezing wind. One sleeve of her parka was burned to a crisp. From the excruciating tug on that side, she knew a few patches had seared down to her skin, fusing cloth and flesh.

She had barely escaped the Hagglund. She had been halfway out a window when the second grenade slammed through the windshield. The blast tossed her end over end and slammed her into a snowbank. Her flaming arm was immediately extinguished.

Knowing they were under attack by an unknown and unexpected force, Krista had crawled, half in shock, over to the Hagglund and hid under it. There she rode out the firefight and the slaughter that followed.

She still trembled at the memory.

She remained hidden when her attackers gathered nearby. She gasped when she spotted her nemesis again. The dark-haired Sigma operative, the one named Painter Crowe. With his face now windburned, she even recognized the hint of his Native American heritage.

How many damned lives does this Indian have?

Staying hidden, she waited for them to leave. One snowmobile headed down toward Longyearbyen, going for help. The others headed back up to the seed vault, to maintain a defensive perimeter against any stray soldiers who might attempt to complete the failed mission.

She had no intention of doing that.

She crossed through the storm to an abandoned snowmobile. The driver's body covered several yards of bloody snow. In agony, she tromped through the carnage and searched the vehicle. The keys were still in place.

Swinging a leg over it, she settled heavily into the seat and twisted the key. The engine grumbled up to a whine as she engaged the throttle.

She leaned low and sped away, heading down the mountain. There was nothing she could do here now.

Except make a promise.

Before this was all over, she would put a bullet through that Indian's skull.

Chapter 25

October 13, 3:38 P.M.

Bardsey Island, Wales

Gray lounged in a steaming tub of hot water.

He kept his eyes closed, struggling to settle his mind. For the better part of an hour he had argued with Owen Bryce, explaining how Rachel had a medical condition that required immediate evacuation. That she needed medicines back at their hotel on the mainland. The only concession he got from the man was that he would reconsider the request in the morning.

It didn't help matters that Rachel still looked okay.

So for now, they were trapped on the island.

At least for a few more hours.

They would wait for nightfall, which at least came early this time of year. Once the islanders were settled in for the night, the plan was to steal that boat. They dared not wait until morning. If Owen still refused, they would lose another day. That could not happen.

So they took the offered rooms. They could use a little downtime. They were all worn thin and needed a moment to rest.

Still, Gray had a hard time relaxing. His mind gnawed and worried on the mysteries and dangers they faced.

Thunder rumbled up into a resounding clap. It rattled the panes of glass in the window above the tub. Candlelight flickered beside the bar of soap. The electricity was still out. Before drawing his bath, he had started a small fire in the bedroom's hearth. Through his closed eyelids, he noted the rosy dance of the flames.

As he sprawled in the tub, a shadow suddenly moved across the glow.

He stiffened, sitting up suddenly, sloshing water over the floor. A figure stood in the doorway, dressed in a robe. He had not heard Rachel enter the room. The thunder had masked her approach.

"Rachel..."

She trembled where she stood, her eyes haunted. She didn't say a word. She shed her robe with no seduction. She simply let it drop and crossed in a rush of steps to the tub. Gray stood and caught her in his arms. She folded against him, needing him. She buried her head against his neck.

He bent at the knees, scooped an arm under her backside, and lifted her up. She was lighter than he remembered, as if hopelessness had hollowed her out. Turning, carrying her, he settled them both into the hot water.

He cradled her in the steaming bath. Her hand slid down his belly, desperate, hurting, her need raw and on the surface. He stopped her and drew her hand back to his chest. He simply held her, waiting for her to stop trembling. They had been running since the fire in the woods, since she had first learned of the betrayal. He should have known better than to leave her alone now as they waited for nightfall.

If his mind had been troubled and unsettled, what must she be going through? Especially alone. He wrapped his arms tightly and squeezed as if by sheer muscle he might keep her safe from harm.

Slowly her trembling wore itself out against his strength.

She sagged into him.

He held her for a long while more-then with a finger, he touched and drew her face up. He stared into her eyes. They shone with her desire to be touched, to feel alive, to know she wasn't alone...and deeper down, almost buried, the embers of old love.

Only then did he bring his lips to hers.

4:02 P.M.

Seichan waited inside her room. She stood with her back against the door and an unlit cigarette in her hand. A few minutes ago she had heard Rachel's door creak ajar, heard her footsteps pass down the hall, then Gray's bedroom door open.

Seichan listened with her eyes closed.

The door never reopened.

As she maintained her vigil, she fought against the welling mix of anger and jealousy, along with an ache she could not dismiss. It clutched her lungs and made it hard to breathe. Leaning against the door, she slowly sank to the floor and hugged her knees.

Alone, with no one to see, she allowed herself this momentary weakness. The room was dark. She had not bothered with a fire, or even a candle. She preferred the darkness. She always had.

Rocking ever so gently, she let the ache pass through her.

She knew she was reverting to a time when pain came often, growing from slaps to violations more intimate. There had been a secret closet where she would hide or seek refuge afterward. It had no windows. No one knew about it but the rats and mice.

Only there, tucked away in the darkness, had she felt safe.

She hated herself now for needing that comfort. She knew she should just tell him and end this pain. But she swore not to. It was because of him she had made that promise.

And no matter what the agony, she would never break it.

6:55 P.M.

Under cover of night, Gray led the others down the jetty.

The ferryboat rocked in its berth and beat itself against the bumpers. Rain poured out of the dark sky. Ahead, Kowalski stood beside the weathered catamaran. He had gone ahead and made sure that the boat was empty, the keys had been left.